


A Portrait of the Artist

by mariecherie, my_deer_friend



Series: Compromise verse [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alex gets fostered by the Laurenses, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Childhood Trauma, Church Sex, Dark, Dialogue Heavy, Dubious Consent, Everything about this is fucked up, Explicit Sexual Content, Fondling, Foster Care, Gay John Laurens, Grooming, Hand Jobs, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Homophobia, Horny Teenagers, Intercrural Sex, Intrigue, Laurens family, M/M, Pining, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Racism, Sex Talk, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Verbal Abuse, inappropriate feelings between foster siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 129,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariecherie/pseuds/mariecherie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend
Summary: When Alex gets placed with Senator Laurens and his family, it's the perfect opportunity - he can learn how to wield the political power and influence he needs to tear down the federal machinery that has made his life hell for the last five years.But he's not expecting to get close to his kind, conflicted foster brother - or to become a player in Henry's darkest political games.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/Francis Kinloch, Alexander Hamilton/Henry Laurens (1723-1792), Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Compromise verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966405
Comments: 184
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, this is the first part of the Compromise Verse, and takes place when Alex first comes to stay with the Laurens family - about 5 years before the events in By Any Means.
> 
> Tags will update as we go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year 1 - January  
> \- Alex arrives at the Laurens house  
> \- John shows Alex around and gives him a scarf as a birthday gift

Alex knows he’s in for a wild ride with his new foster placement when he’s greeted at Charleston International Airport by an honest-to-god chauffeur in a little black cap, holding up a sign with his name printed on it. The man offers to take his suitcase, but Alex refuses to relinquish it. Old habits. His whole life is in that bag. 

The car he climbs into - a black sedan of some kind - is such a contrast to the shitty budget airline he’s just spent the last few hours on that he laughs derisively to himself. 

It’s better to put up a wall and scoff than to allow the fear to set in.

He’d have thought that after going through this foster-care rigmarole at least six times since his mom died, he’d be used to it by now: calm and steady, unaffected, even jaded. But every new placement still floods him with a pathetic wave of anxiety and nerves - like he’s some sort of scared little kid. 

Try as he might, he can’t stop himself from feeling it, but at least he can hide it. So he pulls out his phone and flips through his apps, trying to look bored, like being driven around is nothing new or special. He knows this new family is rich - the dad’s a fucking southern senator, after all - but that they can afford to waste an entire car on him makes him reassess his estimates. 

This is going to be entirely different from the homes he’s used to. He doesn’t know the playbook. 

But despite the uncertainty, he’s actually pretty happy about this placement. He’s read up on Senator Laurens, and although he is the worst sort of hypocritical, bigoted family-values conservative, he has a surprisingly strong track record of getting the measures he supports approved at various levels of government. Just the sort of person Alex can learn from, for when it’s his turn to start tearing down every inch of the federal machinery that has made his life hell for the last five years.

He doesn’t want to reform it. He wants to burn it to the ground. And this Laurens guy is going to show him exactly how to do it.

And hopefully this will be the last home, too. He’s fifteen - but as far as the system’s concerned, he’s a year older due to an absurdly easy-to-overlook clerical error, so he’s going to age out of the system soon anyway - and he’s already built up just enough savings that he can live on his own somewhere for a few months as he hustles to find part-time work while applying for scholarships - unless he can find a way to wrangle the school fees out of this monumentally wealthy family. Having his own place, making his own rules - that freedom is so close that he aches just thinking about it. 

Oh, hang on. 

He slips his phone out of his pocket and checks the date. It’s the eleventh of January, and he almost forgot. He’s sixteen - or seventeen, as far as the rest of the world is concerned.

Happy fucking birthday. 

\-----

Alex stands awkwardly in the entrance hall of the mansion the chauffeur has deposited him in front of - after driving down an obscenely long and winding gravel driveway, gardens stretched out in all directions. In front of him is the entire Laurens family, arrayed like a line of soldiers on the enemy side - each one wearing the family uniform of modest, muted, expensively tailored conservative chic. The father - Henry Laurens - is off to the side with one hand clamped on the shoulder of what must be his eldest son.

“Welcome, Alexander,” Henry says, formal and clipped. 

Alex nods in response, a little too overwhelmed to speak. 

Henry nods back, seemingly pleased that Alex is not making any effort at conversation. “I do hope you will make yourself at home with us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have some important work to return to. Jack here will introduce you to everyone and show you to your room. Oh, and bring you up to speed on the rules.”

Alex nods again.

By necessity, he has become a master at reading social dynamics, and within these few minutes he’s already sussed out that there’s a distinction between this Jack - important, singled out, stoic - and all the other kids, who are fidgeting restlessly and looking like they have been made to endure the world’s worst torture by being made to stand here. 

Henry vanishes with a final distracted nod, and the kid he was standing next to steps forward.

He sticks out his hand with a friendly-enough smile. “John. Nice to meet you.”

Alex takes it warily. “I thought your name was Jack?”

One of the other boys snickers meanly.

“That’s just what my dad calls me,” he says, shooting an annoyed look behind him. “But I usually go by John.”

“Oh.” Alex shrugs. He doesn’t really care anyway.

“What do you prefer? Alex? Alexander?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, okay. Well, this is everyone else.” John introduces them in turn, though Alex struggles to retain the names. Martha, a pretty enough girl if it wasn’t for the look of absolute eye-rolling disdain on her face; Harry, a snide-looking boy who glares at his older brother; Jemmy, an overenthusiastic bundle of nervous smiles who Alex resolves to avoid; and Mary Eleanor, a small and cranky girl who looks up at him with confused distrust.

As soon as John has gone through their names, the kids dissolve like smoke on a stiff breeze into the rest of the house.

“Where’s your mom?” Alex asks, because he hasn’t seen mention of her online.

John looks away. “Um. She’s dead.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

He feels a little pang, but only because that makes him think of his own mother, and how much rather he’d be back in their cramped but homey little apartment above the store on St. Croix than in this cold, formal house. And it’s rare for single parents to be given preference for fostering. But then again, a rich family like this with so many kids probably has nannies and maids to make up the difference. 

The idea of servants waiting on him just makes his skin crawl. 

“Okay, so,” John says, trying to salvage his welcoming mood. “Want me to show you around, or do you want to go to your room first?”

He’s too strung out to make decisions. “Don’t care.”

“Um, okay, let’s go drop your bag off. You don’t need the whole tour now anyway,” John says, with a tone that implies there’s so much house to see that it’s going to take a while. Jesus christ. Alex really has managed to wind up in a parody of his own life. “Need a hand?”

“No,” Alex snaps. He doesn’t _need_ help, and he definitely doesn’t want it. His whole life is in his suitcase and he’ll be damned if someone else gets a hand on it.

“Okay, this way then.” John sighs and leads him up a flight of stairs. Alex drags the case up, gritting his teeth against the weight but far too stubborn to ask for help now. Help he _doesn’t_ need.

John leads him to a closed door, and Alex wonders which of the snotty kids he’ll be sharing with. When John opens it for him, there’s only one bed. Shit.

Alex glares at it. “Okay, but where do I sleep?”

John looks confused. “Here?” he says, waving at the bed. 

“Wait. You mean - this is _my_ room?” He’s never had his own space before.

“Yeah. Oh, shit, did you think you were sharing?”

Alex shrugs. He’s not about to admit he made a stupid assumption like that, after seeing all the other opulence here.

John sits down on the desk chair, and Alex walks tentatively over to the bed and seats himself on it. He looks around. Although the room is fairly sparse, there are hints of a past occupant - cartoonish stickers on the side of the desk, a half-covered mural, a lampshade patterned with stars. 

“Whose room did I steal?” Alex asks, trying to sound snarky.

“It was Henry’s.” At Alex’s puzzled look, John adds, “Not my dad! Henry Junior. My older brother. He died too.”

“Oh.” Alex narrows his eyes. 

“Do you have any siblings?” John asks.

“Yup. Brother,” he says, with a note of finality that he hopes will make it clear that he doesn’t want to elaborate. He hasn’t seen James in years. Doesn't even have his current contact details to check if he’s okay - though that’s not for lack of trying.

John tries to lighten the tone. “They can be a pain in the ass, huh?”

Alex shrugs sourly.

“Um. Okay. Anyway. Let me fill you in on the most important house rules. My father’s pretty strict on all the usual stuff, like drinking and smoking and that, so don’t bring any of that here and don’t let him hear about you doing it somewhere else. You can have friends over if you let the housekeeper know, but not in your room, and not past dinner time. Speaking of dinner, we usually eat together and you’ll be expected to join us if you’re home and you’re not busy with homework or something. You’re - how old again?”

“Si-- uh, seventeen.”

“Okay, your curfew is probably the same as mine - so, eleven. Generally speaking you can go anywhere in the house or on the grounds and use anything you want, like the TV or the pool or whatever. Stuff in the downstairs kitchen is fair game, either help yourself or ask the housekeeper to make you something. Most important thing to remember is that we all have breakfast together in the morning, no excuses - unless you’re sick or something, obviously. Dad will expect you and you must not be late. At seven if it’s a school day and at nine on Saturdays. Sunday you can just grab whatever you want before church.”

Alex makes a face. “I don’t do church.”

“Oh.” John looks vaguely surprised, like he didn’t consider this possibility. “Are you, uh… muslim or something?”

“No,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “I just don’t believe in that shit.”

John frowns. “Um, okay. I’ll check with dad, if you want. But it would be easier if you just went along. It’s just an hour or so.”

Alex shrugs and looks away.

John sighs. “Okay, then there’s my dad.” He grimaces a little. “He’s quite an old-fashioned guy, so your best bet is to keep out of his way. He leaves us to do our own thing for the most part. Never, ever, _ever_ go into his study unless he invites you in. Don’t swear around him, don’t say controversial stuff, and I guess just be polite and all that. Call him ‘sir’, you know?”

Alex barks an incredulous laugh. “No fucking way am I calling him that.”

John sighs deeply, and Alex sees he’s finally broken through the polite veneer. “Look. I’m just telling you this for your own good. Do whatever you want, but if you get yelled at, don’t blame me.”

Alex frowns back. “Oh, no, I get it, _Jack_. Be seen and not heard. Curtail my rights to free speech and freedom from religion. Don’t be a real human with opinions. Anything else?”

He sees John fighting with himself, and somehow the better side of him wins out. “I get that this is a rough time for you, really. We’ve had a few foster kids come through. All I want to do is to make things a little easier.”

Alex pouts, but he holds back any further snarky comments. “I’m tired. Am I allowed to just crash for a bit?” 

“Yeah, of course!” John says, and stands up. “My room is just two doors down, or you can find one of the others - they have shitty attitudes but they’re good kids underneath it. And if you need anything - really - you can just ask me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Alex agrees. He’s not going to ask for anything, anyway. He doesn’t need John or anyone else giving him charity.

“Dinner will be around seven, I’ll come get you then, okay?”

Alex shrugs. He’s not hungry, and he doubts he will have regained his appetite in a few hours.

John gives a deflated shake of his head and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Alex flops back down onto the bed. There are so many fucking rules to keep straight, so many stupid curtailments on his choices and movements. His head pounds just thinking about it, and the combative little flame in his chest sparks up in indignation. Most homes don’t give a fuck about what he does all day, so it’s going to be an adjustment to plan around breakfasts and dinners and school and fucking _church_ , and all the rest. He likes his freedom, and the prospect of giving up any of it grates on him. 

There are very few benefits to being poor, but he realises now that the freedom from all of these obligations is one of them - there are no appearances to keep up when your biggest concern is just putting food on the table.

\-----

John takes him down to dinner, which is mercifully much less formal than Alex was expecting. Henry isn’t there, which could be why. The Laurens kids help themselves to a few prepared dishes left on the kitchen counter and then take their seats at a big wooden dining table. The food all looks pretty southern - roast chicken, collard greens, a sort of porridge-like thing that John explains is called grits. Alex puts a bit of everything on his plate, but only as much as he thinks he can force down, because he is incapable of leaving uneaten food. 

John guides him to a seat next to him. Alex notices that no one has started eating yet, and when John finally sits down they all automatically join hands. The little brother, sitting on his other side, grabs Alex’s hand enthusiastically. John offers his own with an encouraging smile, and after a long moment, Alex takes it. He’s out of energy for any more defiance today. He can fight this one later. 

He watches as they all close their eyes and John recites a quick little prayer. They chorus an _amen_ , then dive right in.

Alex picks at his food - a little too rich and salty for his palate - while the comfortable familial conversation ebbs around him. He tunes it out for the most part, and no one really tries to draw him in. He’s grateful for it.

It gives him the chance to study their dynamic away from the father’s heavy presence.

John takes his role as the oldest brother very seriously, leading the conversation, correcting manners, and refereeing arguments. The older sister is his foil, endlessly rolling her eyes and sighing at him, but when she does speak it’s in clever, cutting remarks. She also looks after her younger sister with the absent ease of long practice, shushing her and wiping her face and cutting up her food.

Harry is the only other kid’s name he picks up, because John is constantly on him, scolding him about things like getting his elbows off the table or staying seated while everyone else finishes. If Alex didn’t know better, he’d think Harry was a foster kid too, with his antagonistic grimace and dismissive body language - the only discordant note in the otherwise amiable dynamic. 

The youngest boy is the rudest - constantly interrupting with his own thoughts and speaking too loudly, making a mess of the food on his plate - but for some reason he doesn’t get scolded in the same way that Harry does.

When they finish eating, John dismisses them - the older sister takes the little girl in her arms - and sets about stacking dishes. Alex jumps in silently to help, and John gives him a friendly smile in thanks. He looks tired, too.

Once they’ve put all the dirty dishes on the sideboard - presumably for some invisible servants to take away and clean - John shows him a few important places in the house (though after one left turn too many, Alex is lost and knows he won’t be able to find his way here again), then takes him back up to his room, saying something about having to go see his father. 

Alex falls onto his bed - _his_ bed, in _his_ room - and lets out an exhausted sigh. 

\-----

It’s really late - after 11pm - when Alex hears rapid footsteps and then an urgent knock on the door. He doesn’t know the protocol for this, but he suspects he’s not really allowed to tell whoever it is to go away. He sighs tiredly and sits up from where he’s been lying on the bed and trying to read himself to sleep.

“Um, come in?”

The door eases open and John peeks in. “Hey. Sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you?”

Alex shrugs. He’s run out of the energy to do more than that.

He’s been an asshole to John all day, so he can’t really fathom what the guy’s doing here this late, with a half-anxious, half-excited smile on his face. John takes a tentative step inside, then closes the door. He’s holding something behind his back, and the pose makes Alex tense up - a well-honed instinct from years in dodgy homes - but John’s shy smile is too nice for him to be hiding anything dangerous. John walks over, then stretches out his hand to reveal - a present?

“What?” Alex says, staring at it with a mix of confusion and suspicion. 

John’s eyebrows lift knowingly. “Happy birthday! I saw the date on your papers in my dad’s study. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek and feels his brows draw in. He’s already forgotten about it again. “It wasn’t important.” And he means it. Birthdays had stopped being a big deal by the time he was old enough to really remember them, and he’d long since decided not to be sentimental about the random day on which he came into the world - he tracks it for legal reasons, so he can tick off the milestones towards his emancipation, but that’s all.

“Don’t be silly,” John says, and nudges the wrapped parcel towards him again. “It’s your birthday. I’m glad I still caught you before it’s officially tomorrow.”

Alex reaches out a tentative hand and John shoves the gift into it. It’s smallish, soft and yielding, and covered in Christmas-themed paper.

It’s the first gift he’s been given since-- His eyes prickle. No, he can’t think about his mom now.

“Sorry about the wrapping paper, I couldn’t find anything generic on short notice.”

Alex tries to keep the shake from his fingers as he carefully unglues the hastily stuck tape. The paper folds away to reveal a piece of deep forest-green fabric that flows like water around his fingers as he pulls it out. It’s a scarf, and probably the nicest piece of clothing he’s ever touched.

He just stares at it, feeling his nose start to burn and clenching his jaw against a sudden and visceral swell of emotion - some of it that seldom-felt tingle of regret at the shitty way he’s been acting to John all day.

John shifts from one foot to the other and prattles on nervously. “I hope you like it? I got it from my aunt for _my_ birthday but it’s not a good colour on me and I haven’t worn it. Sorry, I know it’s kinda shitty to re-gift stuff, but I didn’t have any time to go and get something. I mean, it doesn’t get that cold here really, but you’re from a tropical area so I bet it feels that way to you.” He rubs the back of his neck anxiously. “Sorry. I should shut up. Do you hate it?”

Alex shakes his head no quickly. He can’t quite look up when he says, “It’s really nice. Thanks.”

“Oh, okay, thank goodness!” John sits down on the bed next to Alex. “One more thing.”

John fiddles in his pocket and pulls out a lighter and one of those little spiral candles that Alex has seen on cheesy pictures of birthday cakes. Before he can react, John lights the candle and holds it out in front of his face.

“Sorry, I couldn’t get a cake or anything like that either, but that’s no reason for you not to get to make a wish!”

The gesture is so childish - and so genuinely heartfelt - that Alex’s vision swims with tears he can’t entirely fight down, far too tired to exert his normal mastery over his emotions. He’s been forced to grow up so much that he sometimes forgets that kids his age can still feel this frivolous sense of uncomplicated excitement. 

His mind has gone completely blank, and he can’t even begin to think of what to wish for, but he blows out the candle and musters a weak smile.

John grins, and must not be expecting anything more from him, because he stands up and nods. “Okay, I’ve kept you up long enough. I’ll come get you for breakfast tomorrow, but it’s only at nine since it’s the weekend, so you can sleep in.”

The Laurenses have had a few foster kids come through already, so John must know how rough the first few weeks - never mind the first day - would be for him. Despite all of his instincts and bitterness, he feels an odd swell of gratitude for his unnecessary gesture of kindness. 

“Thanks,” he whispers. 

“Good night!” John smiles knowingly and slips out of his room. 

Alex lies back down and runs his fingers over the green scarf. His mind immediately wanders to how much he could get if he sold it - but he dismisses the thought. It’s too important to him already, as a symbol of something he’s not sure he can name. 

He flicks off the bedside lamp and tucks the scarf under his pillow, and as he’s drifting off from sheer exhaustion he imagines what it would be like if this cold house became a real home. 

He’s not naive: one nice gesture from one kid isn’t exactly going to change his outlook on the whole situation. But maybe _John_ isn’t so bad. And maybe that means there’s something good to salvage.

He doesn't know if birthday wishes are allowed to be made after the candle’s been blown out - no one’s ever taught him those customs - but he checks his phone and it’s 11:58pm, so he decides that it must still count. Because he’s thought of a wish - that maybe, for the first time, he can actually come out of this nightmare with a real friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Alex sleeps soundly until about 4 in the morning, then wakes with a start and panics for a second at the unfamiliar surroundings. When he gets his bearings again, he dozes for a while, but he can’t fall back asleep - there’s just too much adrenaline in his system. But there’s no sense wasting the time. 

He’s transferred schools, but he still needs to pick his subjects, and because the system thinks he’s a year older than he actually is, he’s eligible to take some college credits. He scrolls through the PDF brochure he requested from the state education board and starts highlighting stuff that looks interesting. If he’s smart and a little lucky - though, of course, Alex knows that you make your own luck - he might get two semesters of credit under his belt in the eighteen months before he graduates high school. 

By the time John knocks on his door at half past eight, Alex has mapped out the next year of his academic life in detail. Focusing deeply on it has settled him, though some of the lidded anxiety bubbles up again at the sound of the knock, which brings him back to reality and reminds him that he’s about to properly meet Henry Laurens. 

The patriarch of the family is shrouded in an aura of severity and discipline. From what he’s picked up, the Senator’s children prefer to avoid him outright where possible, and he hasn’t heard any of them say anything joking or light about him, even when he wasn’t around. John certainly thinks that flying under the radar is the way to go. 

But Alex isn’t satisfied with doing that. It’s not his style to let his talents and abilities go unnoticed - especially when he knows his sharp strategic mind and ability to read people are a perfect match for the political world that the Senator moves in - the same one he wants to enter. Being placed here is a golden opportunity, and he’s going to squeeze every last drop out of it.

If he can get someone as prominent as Senator Laurens to take note of him, that could pave the way for a lot of career opportunities. On top of that, if he wants to learn everything he needs to know to wreak havoc on the federal social care system, he’s going to need to actually spend time with him. Get on his good side. Learn, at his elbow, how to walk the halls of power and get people to bend to his will in the way that Henry has so effectively managed to do.

It’s not going to be easy, though. The Senator seems distant, busy, and uninterested in his children’s lives. Alex is going to have to do something dramatic to catch and hold his attention. And he is going to have to try to rein in his own pride. Henry will demand deference, but Alex never did like authority for its own sake. 

Alex ducks in and out of the shower quickly - another habit he can probably drop, since he doubts the Laurenses are concerned about their hot water bill or that someone will go rifling through his unattended belongings - and finds the nicest clothes he has in his suitcase. Or, well... he used to think the slacks and cardigan were nice, but in these surroundings he realises just how drab and worn they actually are. He puts them on with a coiling sense of embarrassment in his chest, and resolves to spend a little of his savings on something new and more presentable. He’s never felt the need to bother with nice clothes before, considering how little space he has in his suitcase and because, short of hearings with his case worker, he’s never really had to dress to impress anyone before. But it could be a useful investment here.

John is kicking his heels in the passageway outside his door when Alex emerges.

“Sleep well?” John asks with a smile.

“I guess.”

“Ready for breakfast?”

Alex shrugs. “Am I allowed to take my phone?”

“Sure, as long as you don’t use it at the table while my dad’s around.”

Alex slips it into his pocket and closes his door, his hand a little shaky with nerves and anticipation. 

They go downstairs in silence, and John leads him to a different dining room - this one airier and sunnier. The table is laid with place settings and an array of platters and trays holding bread, cheeses and cold cuts, jams, fruit and boiled eggs - all covered by gauzy little umbrellas.

Henry is already seated at the head of the table, hidden behind a large print newspaper. 

John walks in, and Alex hovers in the doorway for a second before following him. 

“Morning, sir,” John says.

Henry lowers the paper. “Ah, Jack. And Alexander.”

Alex remembers John’s instruction on how to address the Senator, but he can’t quite force the honorific out, so he settles for a nod and a curt, “Morning.”

“Sit down, boys, don’t hover,” Henry scolds good-naturedly. “I hope that Jack has been doing an adequate job of inducting you?”

John pulls out the chair next to Henry. Alex calculates for a second, then walks as casually as he can around the table to Henry’s other side. John shoots him a puzzled look but doesn't comment.

“Everything is clear enough for now, thanks,” Alex says.

“Good, good.” Henry folds the newspaper over to a section on one of the inner pages and holds it out to John. “Take a look, Jack. Some more good coverage.”

Alex tries to catch a glimpse of what Henry is referring to, but John takes the paper and starts to read it over, the picture of earnestness. Henry turns back to him.

“I was impressed with your academic record, Alexander. Tell me, what are you planning to study?”

Alex keeps his face neutral, though he rankles at the casual assumption that attending college is accessible and expected. “Oh, um - law, or at least that’s the goal. Political science or economics or something like that for my undergrad.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “You hear that, Jack?”

John looks up from the paper, a little distracted. “Hear what?”

“Alexander here has the right idea, pursuing a worthwhile career path. What was it that you said you wanted to apply for?”

Alex doesn’t miss the condescending note in the Senator’s voice. John sucks in his bottom lip.

“I haven’t decided yet, sir.”

“Media studies, was it?” Henry scoffs.

John’s voice goes quieter. “It was just an idea, sir.”

Just as John is saying this, Alex spots the older sister - Mary? Maggie? - appear in the doorway, take one look at the scene, and quietly duck out again.

“A poor one, if you’re expecting to get into the Georgetown law programme. I doubt that even I can pull enough strings to get you accepted with a soft degree like that.”

Alex sees a wave of tension go through John’s jaw and neck. “I would expect to get in on my own merits. Sir.”

“That remains to be seen.” Henry turns back to him, and Alex snaps his eyes up. “Academics are key. Have you considered schools yet, Alexander?”

He has, of course. Extensively. Alex keeps a running spreadsheet of university rankings correlated to programme fees and scholarship schemes, so that he can work out the optimal balance of cost to quality. He’s prepared to spend a year or two somewhere small and cheap and then transfer through to a more prominent school. But he’s pretty sure the Senator is not looking for this long-winded answer. 

But before he can respond, the two kid brothers come in, followed by the older sister, who’s carrying the younger one. Alex takes the momentary distraction to peek over at the section of newspaper that John has been reading, and glimpses a headline with the words “Senator Laurens” and “philanthropic” and “family” before he needs to look away again. 

The sister studies John carefully as she deposits the smaller girl and then sits down next to him, and Alex notices a rapid, silent exchange of glances and shrugs pass between them. Harry sits down opposite his father at the other end of the table, glowering to himself, but the other one, Jamie or something, bustles up to him.

“Good morning, Alexander! Did you sleep okay?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, not too bad, thanks.”

The kid climbs onto the chair next to him without shifting his attention away. “Do you wanna come see my room? After breakfast I mean. I have a giant stuffed leopard from Uncle James, and Jack got me crayons so I’ve been drawing a lot and--”

“Jemmy,” John scolds, but he’s smiling. “Let up, okay? Give Alex a chance to settle in.”

“Only if you want to,” Jemmy says more quietly, turning in his chair so that he’s facing the table. 

Alex doesn't, but Jemmy might be willing to share some things that he’s not comfortable asking John about, or that he might not twist and varnish in the way John would - more about Henry; what happened to the mother and the older brother; what unspoken rules he needs to be aware of. 

“No, it’s fine. I’d like to.”

He sees the sister roll her eyes. Just then, a woman in a neat black uniform walks in carrying a tray with a big, elaborately decorated silver pot and a jug of juice. She takes a delicate cup off the sideboard, pours coffee from the pot into it, then puts it down next to Henry. 

“Mornin’, Mr Laurens,” she says cheerfully.

“Ah, thanks, Sofia. Any mail?”

She goes back to the tray and brings over a small stack of letters. “Nothing important, I don’t think, except for an invitation from the House speaker, sir.”

Henry scoffs lightly as he takes the bundle from her. “Then your definition of important could do with some improving,” he jokes. 

She laughs lightly. “Kids, anything you need from the store for the weekend?” She casts her eye over the table and lands on Alex’s face. He quickly schools his expression, which has been twisting into a frown. “Ah, you must be our Alexander. _Bienvenido a la familia! Espero que disfrute de su estancia._ ”

Alex freezes, and his face goes red with shame at being addressed in this familiar way in front of the whole family. It must be clear to her, just like it’s clear to him, how completely he doesn’t fit in with the family seated at this table. For a moment, he wishes he could slip away into some more comfortable back room with her and talk freely, comfortably, without the weight of all these foreign expectations of how to speak and act hanging over him.

He feels like an imposter. 

He can speak Spanish just fine. And French, and Creole, and a little Danish that he picked up from the St Crucians. But because the entire family is sitting there, watching him, _judging_ him, he responds in English. “Um, thanks.” 

She doesn’t seem perturbed, just gives him a friendly nod. 

Jemmy pipes up. “Can we get ice cream?” he asks, darting a glance between his father and the housekeeper.

“Ice cream? In January?” she says sceptically.

“Actually,” John says, “If it’s not too much trouble, would you be able to pick up a cake? It was Alex’s birthday yesterday and we didn’t get a chance to celebrate.”

Alex cringes and goes even redder. He really doesn’t want a fuss to be made of him, not in his first week. And John being so nice and considerate, when Alex has hardly earned it, is oddly grating. He wonders how much of it is genuine, and how much is John playing the role of a dutiful host.

“Oh, sure,” she says, just as Jemmy leaps up from his chair and gives Alex a big sideways hug. “Happy birthday! How old are you?”

“Um. Seventeen.”

“Sit down, Jemmy,” Henry instructs absentmindedly, not looking up from the mail.

Jemmy does, reluctantly. The housekeeper leaves. 

Henry takes a sip of coffee and waves a hand. “Oh, go ahead.”

They erupt into a bustle of activity, pulling aside the food covers and loading their plates. John gets up and grabs the coffee pot, while the sister takes the jug of juice, and they start pouring out what must be the usual measures for everyone. 

John holds the pot out to him. “Coffee?”

Alex smiles. “God, yes.”

Henry looks up and shoots him a glance, just as John raises his eyebrows.

“We do not blaspheme in this house,” Henry says mildly.

Alex is confused for a moment, then realises his slip. “Oh. Shit, sorry.”

Henry levels him with a sterner disapproving look - piercing grey eyes, a slightly furrowed brow, a small twist of the lips - and Alex feels the small, vulnerable part of himself that he keeps locked away recoiling and squirming. His heart thuds in double-time. There’s nothing particularly dark in the look, but it’s so intense it’s almost like a physical blow.

“In this family, Alexander, we choose to mind our manners. Especially at the table.”

Alex doesn’t respond, but he does drop his gaze into his lap. Nobody has ever rendered him speechless with just a look before.

“Jack, see to it that Alexander understands,” Henry orders.

“But I--” John says reflexively, but Henry turns that gaze on him and he swallows his words, biting down a sigh. “Yes, sir.”

The table falls quiet, partly under the shroud of awkwardness, and partly because everyone starts eating. Alex chews a piece of bread with butter, but his mouth is dry. 

He’s such a fucking idiot.

Well, it’s clear that he’s going to have to do a _lot_ of work to assimilate. Running his mouth is one of his few weaknesses, but he can already see it’s going to be an issue around Henry - especially since the parameters of what is and isn’t allowed to be said are so poorly defined in his mind. Being served and waited on is already rubbing his nerves raw. Having to deal with the whole family at breakfast every single day is going to require him to store up and manage his willpower. And that’s all just to get by - never mind to make a good impression, which he’s already failing at dismally.

Slowly, the mood around the table thaws, and light conversation picks up. The dynamics are a little different from yesterday’s dinner. John fades almost entirely into Henry’s shadow, and the sister is less overtly sarcastic. Harry remains silent and affects a bored expression, while Jemmy peppers his siblings with questions about their weekend plans. 

When the eating has largely concluded, Henry turns back to him, his expression neutral again. “You were going to tell me about prospective universities, Alexander.”

Alex takes a quick sip of coffee against the dryness in his mouth. “Right. So, I’m focusing on the top twenty schools. My best shot is probably with Columbia or Brown, but Harvard would be nice. For the name.”

“Hmm. Very good. I like to see a little ambition.” He shoots a look at John, who either doesn’t see it or pretends to ignore it. “But have you considered any schools further south?”

Alex knows this is a loaded question, and he knows what the correct answer in this context is. But he can’t bring himself to spin the narrative on something so important to him. “Duke and Rice are okay, I guess, but they don’t rank that well for law.”

“Georgetown is a top-twenty school, isn’t it?” Henry muses. 

Before he can stop himself, Alex blurts, “It’s not, actually.”

Everyone at the table falls silent and turns to look at him. John is shooting him some sort of panicked silent message, but Alex can’t decipher it. 

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Are you quite sure?”

He is. But doubling down does not exactly sound like a good approach here. 

“Well,” Alex says, trying to reverse out of this suddenly dangerous cul de sac, “I’m sure it’s in the top thirty or so, it’s just not one of the schools I’m tracking.”

“Perhaps,” Henry says, quieter and more intent, “It has lost some of its prestige since I studied there.”

Oh. Oh shit. Alex instantly understands his blunder, and he should really have been quicker to pick up on this after Henry mentioned it earlier. His frazzled nerves are no excuse for not paying closer attention.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s great,” Alex says, then spots John across from him, grimacing and trying to melt under the table. Seeing him gives Alex an idea, and he runs with it despite it being a low blow. “And I guess it’s fine for people like John who aren’t as serious about having a proper legal career.”

Henry appears so astonished by the little jab that he takes a moment to consider his reaction, then lets out a surprised chuckle.

“You are quite something, Alexander. All of my boys will be attending Georgetown, so I hope that I will be able to convince you of its merits.”

And what is that supposed to mean, Alex wonders. Is Henry implying that Alex could possibly belong to this group too? 

“I’ll look into it,” he offers, and catches the older sister glaring at him for a moment before she looks away.

“Do,” Henry says, and the word carries the weight of an order.

When Alex dares a glance up at John a minute later, John is staring fixedly at the basket of bread in front of him, wearing an aggressively neutral expression on his face.

\-----

When Alex gets back to his room, he closes the door and looks up the newspaper article he glimpsed earlier. It doesn’t take much searching, even though the local paper is full of articles about Henry and his family. It’s a brief piece, centred around a quote from the Senator, that highlights the Laurens family’s philanthropic endeavours in - per the quote - ‘giving promising underprivileged youths the opportunity to flourish in an environment focused on academic and moral excellence’. There is a brief mention of another foster kid who came through and has gone on to do apparently great things as the head of a family-values youth leadership programme - and Alex can only imagine what kind of toxic organisation that must be.

He spends a long while staring up at the ceiling and processing everything he’s learnt this morning. 

If anything, the Senator is even more impressive in person than on paper - he radiates a heady aura of self-assurance and control. He is a man who expects unquestioning obedience and has absolute confidence in his views. If Alex could acquire even a tenth of that, he’d go far in life. So, how can he steal a little of Henry’s flame for himself?

He needs to get closer. Find out what Henry wants with him. Ingratiate himself, against his nature. Henry has opened the door to the possibility of Alex joining this inner circle, but Alex doesn't just want a spot somewhere in the ranks - to be truly effective, he needs the position of honour at Henry’s side. He needs to become his most promising prospect and the centre of his scarce attention.

Achieving that would mean unseating John.

But Alex is okay with that. And he suspects John would be, too.

It’s clear that John’s strategy of trying to stay under the radar is a pointless waste of his time. Henry is constantly pushing John’s buttons, like he’s trying to get a rise out of him - and John just stoically absorbs the blows instead of pushing back. Henry wants to be obeyed, sure, but Alex doesn’t think that he wants John just to roll over. He’s looking for a spark of anger, of fight. For drive and ambition.

Alex has ambition and anger by the truckload. And when he surveys the other Laurens boys - the girls don’t seem to factor into any of Henry’s equations - he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s more impressive than all of them. If he lets Henry see it, that attention - and all its resulting benefits - might be redirected to him. The Senator is clearly obsessed with his image, and this whole guise of helping poor brown kids works in Alex’s favour - because what would look better than Henry mentoring and elevating him, considering the promise he is going to make sure Henry sees in him? Yes, he’d be a pawn in Henry’s disingenuous messaging, but if he plays his cards right, he might get a whole degree out of it for free - and maybe even more. He’ll milk the Senator for every cent and ounce of influence he’s able to extract before he turns his back on the whole horrible ideology that underlies it.

Alex is willing to make that trade-off. He’s not naive or privileged enough to value his morals over food, lodging and an education. He can compartmentalise. Compromise. Sacrifice a little now at the start, for the sake of a better outcome at the end of his long game.

He unlocks his phone again, and looks up Georgetown.


	3. Chapter 3

One of the projects Alex assigns himself - personal extra credit, as it were - is to start mapping out the topics and opinions that appeal most to Henry. He keeps a list on his phone, and chooses a new one to trot out every morning at breakfast. Some are clear failures. Henry does not like to discuss the specifics of his work, though he’s happy enough to converse on broader topics and to share anecdotes from day-to-day life in D.C., which Alex gobbles up. His foray into discussing immigration reform is an unmitigated disaster, but he wins Henry back the next day by asking for his opinion on the best majors for someone aspiring to a career in public service. He prunes his list of topics mercilessly with every new data point, until he has more hits than misses.

It’s just been three weeks, and Alex can already tell that the dynamic at the breakfast table is shifting in his favour. Nobody else is particularly interested in the topics he brings up, so usually the others chat among themselves, while he and the Senator talk over their corner of the table. Alex doesn’t try to hide his intelligence, even though he suspects it makes him look a little arrogant - and interestingly, it seems that Henry starts to take some pleasure in the verbal sparring, trying to catch him out.

He catches Martha occasionally glaring at him, but he can’t really imagine what her issue is, and she doesn’t say anything. 

John is harder to figure out. On one hand, he seems relieved to have less attention on him at breakfast. On the other, he’s almost... antsy? Alex doesn’t get the sense that John is jealous of the shifting attention, but perhaps he’s uncomfortable at no longer being Henry’s lightning rod - not that Alex needs the cover. And anyway, John has been unfailingly polite and considerate to him, so whatever reservations he might have, he isn’t sharing them.

That could be because Alex has mostly been keeping to himself, enjoying the luxury of a private room while he churns through the schoolwork he needs to make up on since he switched mid-way through the year. It has been a pleasant distraction, but now that he’s caught up and starting to settle in, the anxiety is fading and he’s starting to get bored. 

It seems that the Laurens kids are largely left to their own devices on the weekends, except for the mandatory attendance at church, which is possibly even more painful than Alex was expecting, consisting of long and dull sermons full of bigotry and dog-whistles. And living out in the suburbs - in the _rich_ suburbs, where the nearest house is half a mile away - doesn't leave a lot of room for spontaneous fun.

He needs something productive to do with his free time.

On Saturday morning, Alex hovers at the breakfast table once the others have melted away, standing patiently off to one side until he is alone with Henry, who is leaning back easily in his chair as he finishes his morning paper and second cup of coffee.

Alex clears his throat softly. 

Henry tilts down the corner of the paper. “Alexander? Did you need something?”

“Since I’ve gone so far ahead on my school work,” he opens, bragging in a self-deprecating way and affecting that eager tone Henry seems to respond well to, “I was just wondering if you had any suggestions for other things I could do?” He leaves the question hanging in the air for a second before he adds, “Academically speaking, I mean.”

Henry raises an eyebrow at the feint, but then folds the newspaper thoughtfully. “You are interested in the law, correct?”

“As a means to an end, yes.”

“Legal scholarship rests on millennia of philosophical tradition. How well-versed are you with the classics?”

Alex frowns. “You mean, like, Dickens?”

Henry laughs. “No, Alexander. Aristotle. Cicero. Are you familiar with Edmund Burke?” 

Alex flushes a little. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I’m not.” 

“Oh, he is a favourite of mine. I have a few of his works up in the athenaeum.” At Alex’s confused look, which he’s a little too slow to mask, Henry chuckles knowingly. Point to him. “In my private library. Why don’t you go and take a look?”

“Oh, sure, thanks.”

“Run along now,” Henry says, lifting the paper again to dismiss him.

Alex shifts restlessly for a second, then he frowns and leaves. He’s not exactly thrilled; he was hoping Henry might give him something more interesting to do - but what that might be, he isn’t sure.

\-----

Alex goes back to his room for a bit after breakfast, then decides to walk around the house and see if he can find anything odd or interesting to entertain him. He’s still no good at finding his way around the twisting, maze-like warren of rooms in the Laurens house, so he startles a little when he walks into one of the many sitting rooms and comes across John, lounging on the couch and staring at his open AP history textbook, looking a little glassy-eyed. From that expression, Alex suspects he must have read the same bit over a bunch of times without really absorbing it. 

Alex looks behind him to try to figure out how he ended up here, then back at the room he’s just entered. He frowns. “Um. Sorry. I think I took a wrong turn.”

John looks up, an instant expression of relief at the excuse to forget his textbook. He smiles a little nervously. “Where are you trying to get to?”

“Oh, uh, just looking for somewhere to chill. But don’t let me disturb you.” Alex looks morosely back the way he came. This goddamn house and all its rooms, and not a fucking thing to do in any of them.

John tosses his textbook aside quickly. The cover lands on a fold and Alex winces, but John seems not to care at all about keeping this specific book in pristine condition. 

“No, please save from this crap. I’ve been bored to death all day and the others have holed up in a pillow fort in the main lounge.” John rolls his eyes, but really he sounds grudgingly fond. Alex heard the other kids squealing and laughing as he passed another one of the sitting rooms; it’s not a sound he hears often when Henry's in the house.

“Amrev? Or are you up to the civil war yet?”

John grimaces and glances back at the cover of his textbook. “Going back over the surrender of Cornwallis for an exam. Boring as heck.”

Alex laughs, a little at John’s expense. “Yeah, we get it, the French came to save us, whatever.” He looks over at the other side of the couch. He’s not going to find anything better to do, and John seems eager for a distraction. “Fine if I…?”

John chucks some of the unnecessary decorative cushions off the sofa. “Sure! Sit wherever.”

Alex walks over and sits down with his back against the armrest, his legs crossed on the seat. “Okay, can I ask you something?”

John sits up a little, looking interested if a little apprehensive. “Yeah. Sure, what’s up?”

“Okay, so, I get that you guys are all - uh - well behaved or whatever. But, what do you do for fun? Surely there’s gotta be more to your weekend than studying?”

Because, yes, he could kill two birds with one stone — get a feel for how much of John’s stoic politeness is a mask he wears around the house and whether he actually parties and sleeps around behind Henry’s back, and also find something to cure his boredom _._

John blinks, unsure whether or not to laugh. “Uh, I mean I’m usually busier than this. The holiday season has just ended but normally there are parties and fundraising galas and stuff, there’s church tomorrow morning. Polo season starts in the next few weeks too. The younger kids have tutors, music lessons... It’s not usually so boring.”

Alex’s jaw all but drops. This kid is so fucking _clueless_. “Are you kidding?”

John looks at him, bewildered. “Uh-- no…?”

“John.” Alex sighs deeply. “I’m not talking about fun sanctioned by daddy. I mean _real_ fun.”

John scowls and bites his lip; Alex notes he must have hit on something. “I mean - some of the holiday stuff is pretty fun. But, well, do you mean like house parties?”

“I guess? Don’t you ever, I dunno, sneak out and go meet up with a pretty girl or something?”

John goes bright red and ducks his head and lets out a nervous laugh. Hmm, another sore spot. “Uh-- I mean I guess I’ve been to parties and stuff. But girls? Dad would actually blow a fuse.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Wait. You’re eighteen, right?”

John nods. “Yeah, since October.”

“And you’ve managed to avoid girls for every one of those eighteen year?” He says it with a slightly incredulous smirk. Alex can’t imagine someone as good-looking as John - surrounded by cute, preppy, WASPy girls - hasn’t fooled about at least a little.

John rolls his eyes. “And I suppose in New York everyone’s sleeping around from age fourteen? I’m eighteen, not eighty.”

“Eh, we get around,” Alex says with a mysterious smile. “Girls…” He pauses to make sure he can catch the reaction. “Boys…”

John glances at him sharply, looking as though he’s misheard. “Sorry?”

Alex frowns, suddenly wondering whether revealing this particular detail about himself was wise. Kids his age usually find it cool rather than shocking. So he can’t help but get defensive.

“Yes? I know you southerners like to pretend everyone’s straight, but... “ He shrugs. “I don’t care what you think. I like girls _and_ I like guys. Is that a problem?”

“No,” John hastens to clarify, the blood rushing to his face again, “It doesn’t bother _me._ I just-- Well… Knowing you, you’ve read my dad’s voting history. He isn’t exactly progressive about that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, so?”

John shrugs, rubbing his forehead. “So… well, so this isn’t New York. It’s hard for anyone who isn’t, well, completely straight. You can’t just get away from it by being tolerant.”

Alex feels a rush of irritation at these borderline patronising platitudes. “Oh, yeah, you can save your fake empathy. I don’t need you to pretend you know what it’s like.”

John’s politeness is chipping away. It seems like he can’t quite hold back the real bite in his voice now. “Don’t assume you know everything about this place because you’ve been here three weeks.”

Alex’s eyes narrow. This guy can’t be for real? John - strait-laced, saintly, model-son _John_ \- is pretending he understands all the complicated intricacies of being different in a way that would have you arrested less than a decade ago? 

He scoffs. “I didn’t _grow up_ in New York, you know, and even up there it’s not always easy to be transparent about that stuff. Still doesn’t mean you can just ‘what?’ me when I mention I like guys. It’s fucking rude, for one thing.”

Alex doesn’t miss the irony of him calling John rude, considering his behaviour over the past few weeks. But fuck it, he’s being confronted by the exact thing he’d worried about when he was notified about this placement, and it hurts even more coming from someone he’d just decided might be half decent. 

John’s jaw is clenched, as though he’s holding back something he knows he shouldn’t say aloud. _Fucking typical -_ that Alex would befriend someone only to be on the receiving end of their patroinising ‘I’m not homophobic but-’ spiel. 

John’s irritation wins out. He glares at Alex as his hands fiddle restlessly with the edge of cushion beside him. “Listen, I didn’t mean to offend you, but you’ve-- You’ve come here with all these assumptions about what we’re like, how things are down here… And you’re just applying them blindly.”

Alex laughs mockingly. “Oh, I’m sorry, _you’re_ suddenly the one offended?” 

John shakes his head. “I don’t care about who you like, I’m just-- Alex, you don’t get it. It’s just, here you spend your whole life never talking about it, because obviously if it’s talked about that makes it real.” He’s not looking at Alex now, and his words tumble over one another in a stilted rush. “And it’s not supposed to be real. Just, you’d also be put off by someone being cavalier about what you’ve been told you have to hide all your life.”

Alex’s eyes narrow. “Wait… what?”

Did John just imply what Alex thinks he did? 

_Oh, this could be very useful._

John looks up, the angry flush draining from his face. Some of that earnest vulnerability leaves his expression, like he has suddenly closed himself off. The polite mask creeps back.

“I didn’t ask to talk about this. Can we not?” 

Alex leans in closer, but his expression isn’t challenging and snide anymore. He tries not to let his tone slip back to anything smug or disdainful, which is difficult because those two things tend to be his default settings.

“No, no, hang on. This is the first half-interesting thing about you. Are you saying…?”

John scoffs. “Thanks very much, but I don’t have any obligation to answer your questions.”

“No, of course not,” Alex says, and he means it sincerely. “It’s just… If you’re covering up for something like that, I suddenly have a million percent more respect for you.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, I don’t give a shit if you’re bi or gay or fucking trans or whatever. But, the John I thought I knew wouldn’t be the kinda guy to live this whole double-life thing. Keeping a big secret like that from dear old dad. I respect that.”

John shakes his head. “I think you have the wrong idea. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “You know _I_ don’t care about any of that. You don’t need to cover around me, even if there _is_ a specific reason why you don’t wanna talk about this.”

John doesn’t respond for a moment. Despite his neutral expression, his shoulders are tense and he won’t look at Alex - it’s the posture of someone who feels caught, who feels like the inevitable is catching up with them. Good. Alex wants this little bargaining chip under his belt. He’s been slacking thus far.

“I--” John hesitates, looking torn, “I don’t-- It’s not like I’m lying to him about anything. I don’t even know if-- Well, it might not even be anything to worry about.”

Alex fixes him with a searching stare. “I would hope that you’d know it’s not something to ‘worry’ about, regardless of what it is.”

John kisses his teeth. “Jeez, Alex, it’s not… it’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean it can’t fuck up your life here.”

“Yeah. You think I don’t know that? Let me tell you that this is not the only intolerant place in the world.”

He swallows and glances up at Alex, his expression softens somewhat. “Look, I know Charleston isn’t the only rough place to be gay or-- Or whatever. But you don’t have one of the most conservative senators in the country for a father,” he adds bitterly. 

“No, you’re right. I don’t have a father at all,” Alex mutters, a little aggravated.

John falls silent, looks down at his hands and gives the barest shrug. For some reason, this softens Alex a little, and he looks up with a wry smile.

“Sorry. My shitty life isn’t your fault.” He sits quietly for a moment, wandering through his thoughts as he tries to figure out the best way to use this information. Perhaps getting closer to John would be useful, since John has such an intimate understanding of how things work around here - and how to navigate Henry. So he aims for empathy. “I bet you don’t have anyone to talk to, huh?”

If _he_ can be the one John comes to about these things, not only could it illuminate things about this family, about _Henry_ , but he’ll have an ally here. It could be something like repayment for that scarf and the wish on his birthday. Those have been gnawing at him. Alex doesn’t like to be indebted to anyone, not even emotionally.

John glances up again, the look in his eyes something near lost. “Uh, well, I’m the oldest, right? I can’t put any of that shit on the kids.”

Alex actually allows himself a smile, probably the softest expression he’s worn since he got there. “I’m not a kid. Hit me.”

John frowns. “You want to hear me rant about-- about my dad? About how awful this place is?”

“Uhhh… yeah? Exactly. It’s not like you’re gonna taint my impression of it.”

John rolls his eyes. “You have no idea. You’d think it was the fucking sixties here sometimes, with the way everyone acts.”

“I swear to god I saw one of the old segregated benches in the city centre. This place is stuck in the dark ages. Even the island wasn’t quite this, ah, backwards.”

John shakes his head. “Tell me about it. My mom was Dominican, and she married my dad in the eighties! I can’t imagine what _that_ would have been like.”

“She must have been one hell of a lady.”

John smiles. “Yeah. She really was. The only person I’ve _ever_ seen tell my dad what to do.”

Again - interesting. Alex laughs. “I’d pay good money to see that…”

John sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “This place wasn’t always this… stifling. It was different when she was around.”

Alex nods, and he opens his mouth to speak but then closes it again. No. He shouldn’t reveal too much of his _own_ hand.

John looks at him curiously. “What is it? You’ve listened to my stupid rambling, I’m hardly going to judge.”

“Oh…” Alex bites his lip. “I was just thinking, they would probably have got on really well.”

John grins. “I’ll bet. What was she like? Your mom?”

“Tough. Smart. Unlucky.” He looks away. There’s a fine line between being open enough to gain John’s trust and appearing weak. Because he isn’t. His mom has been dead for years. He’s moved on. He’s _not_ still upset about it.

John starts to reach out a hand, as though to put it on Alex’s shoulder. But he thinks twice about it, and settles for scooching a little closer.

“I know we’ve had pretty different lives,” he laughs a little, “But honestly… it was utter shit when she died. If there’s anything I _do_ get, it’s that.”

Alex just nods, and now he’s biting back tears. He pulls his lips to one side but doesn’t speak. Sure, it’s a little put on. The tears don’t come that easily anymore, and he can keep them in without much hassle these days, but John’s earnest understanding, the solid presence beside him… well, it’s more than he’d bargained for.

John clenches his jaw, and his eyes start to look a little shiny now too. Alex feels a sharp, unexpected stab of empathy. 

John says, “You don’t have to say anything about it, it’s fine. I mean, I get it.”

Alex takes another minute to find his voice. “Yeah. It’s fine. Just how life goes.” He wipes at his cheek with the back of his sleeve, pretending it’s just an itch. “Anyway,” he says, forcing a laugh, “I wasn’t kidding when I said I was looking for something fun to do.”

John laughs. “Uh, yeah, sorry about that. I’m a real disappointment on the ‘fun’ front.”

“Hmmm. Okay, well maybe I need to use a different approach then.” Alex leans in close and lowers his voice. “Is there something you _wish_ you could do?”

John watches him warily. “I-- I don’t know… Do you mean like boys and stuff--” He goes red. “Or girls, whatever.”

Alex bites his lip and tries not to grin too broadly. He winks. “We don’t have to start with the big stuff. How about, I dunno, drinking?”

John breathes a relieved sigh. “Well… It’s not like I’ve never had alcohol before. Sometimes there are college parties and stuff. I’ve been to one or two.”

“Really?” Alex doesn’t quite believe it.

John shrugs, and Alex gets the impression he’s padding the truth a little _._ “It’s not like I’ve been completely wasted or anything, and I can only stay for a few hours before my dad misses me but - yeah, I guess.”

“Shit, you’re actually adorable, you know that?” Alex chuckles. “The key, my friend, is to sneak out _after_ they think you’re already in bed.”

John winces, “I dunno… There’s the home security thing and I never know if there are staff creeping around…”

Alex laughs properly. “Okay, okay. And if the, uh, party came to you?” He waggles his eyebrows.

John grins. “Can you really see me hosting a house party here? Are you out of your mind?” 

“No, you idiot. Not like a whole party. But… if I can get my hands on something, would you drink it with me?” 

John frowns. “It’s not like I’m… I’m _scared_ of it, I just don’t have any time. I mean, I guess? But dad would know if we were drunk, he’s got a fucking sixth sense for bad behaviour, I swear.”

“Oh,” Alex says slyly, “But Henry doesn’t know how to reckon with me. You can sneak into my room… or would that also give him the _wrong_ idea?” 

John gives a half grimace. “I dunno. I’ve never really considered the logistics. But he doesn’t normally come near our rooms. If he wants us, he sends someone to bring us to him.”

“Has he ever, uh, ‘sent for you’ at two in the morning?”

John laughs. “No. That’s some nightmare material.”

Alex smirks, but doesn’t quite laugh. “Okay. I’m taking that as a yes, then. We can get wasted and you can tell me about all the boys you have a crush on.”

John grimaces. “I don’t-- Fine, okay, deal. On the first bit, at least.”

“You’ll find that the second one gets easier after the first one.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t--” John swallows and looks a little frightened. “I hope I haven’t signed away all my secrets to you or something now.”

A big grin spreads over Alex’s face. He taps his forehead. “Fort Knox. You don’t get as far as I have by blabbing. Besides, maybe you’re not as bad as I thought you were. If we’re gonna be friends, secrets are a good thing.”

John gives a slightly nervous laugh. “Uh, ditto. People have a lot to hide around here, and I have four siblings, so… But I can’t promise a few beers is all it takes to learn my deepest darkest secrets.” He grins, blushing slightly. “I sort of expect dinner first.”

Alex can’t imagine any other deep, dark secrets that John could be hiding that would be of any particular _use_ to him, unless they concerned Henry. But he doesn’t want to underestimate his foster brother and, besides, he hasn’t been drunk in a while.

“Oh, John, Jack, Jackie - don’t make it sound quite so much like a challenge… You should know I’m not gonna back down from that!”

John groans. “I’ve opened Pandora’s fucking box, haven’t I? Well, it’s gotta be a one-for-one ratio on the secrets, at least. Deal?”

“You’re on. I’ll even give you a freebie. Shoot.” 

It’s probably a good idea to get John more comfortable. If something really personal or incriminating comes up, Alex _can_ just lie.

John blinks. “You want me to ask you something?” 

Alex grins. “Yeah.” 

“Uh… I guess…” He looks embarrassed. “How many guys have you - uh, kissed? I dunno.”

Alex scoffs. “You’re wasting your question on something lame like that?”

John laughs nervously. “Shit, okay, do-over?”

“I’ll allow it.”

John bites his lip and thinks for a long moment. “Okay. Got one. What’s your greatest fear?”

“Woah. Holy shit, okay, now you’ve gone off the other end.”

John pushes a hand through his hair. “Shit, man - you’re making me nervous. Do you want another one?”

“Nah. That one’s fine.” Alex purses his lips. “Okay, so. I guess the thing I’m most afraid of is that, at the end of the day, all the stuff I’ve been through and all the stuff I’ve worked towards end up not mattering. Like it’s all some big cosmic joke at my expense. Like I’m nothing special and I never meant anything to the world. That - or spiders, I guess.”

A smidge of truth never hurt, and he’s coming to like this kid. John sometimes looks at him like he’s the strangest, most interesting thing for miles, and he has the impression that some strategic verisimilitude will put them back on more level footing. 

John raises an eyebrow, looking taken aback and extremely uncomfortable all of a sudden. He hedges, then says, “Tough-guy Alex Hamilton is afraid of spiders? You do know this is prime blackmail material, right? I should start carrying one around with me in a jar.”

“Dude, unless you have fucking giant tropical jungle spiders, I think I can handle your average Carolina mosquito-catcher.”

John laughs. “You know we have a sub-tropical climate too? They’re ginormous in the summer. You can’t escape them. But, I think what you make of your life is more up to you than,” he does air quotes, “‘the universe’ or whatever.”

Alex smiles in a slightly condescending way and ignores the platitude. “Guess I’ll need to find myself a hunky jock-type to swat them for me.”

John shrugs. “Okay. But when it comes to snakes, you’re on your own.” 

“Fuck, you have snakes too?” 

“Yeah, loads. I mean, they don’t get in the house often, but don’t go walking in long grass or anything for - oh, like half the year.”

“I swear to god - I find _one_ snake in my room and I’m calling my case worker. These are inhumane conditions, John.”

“Don’t you have about a bazillion rats up in New York?”

“Nah, the rats are different. It’s more, like, symbiotic.” But Alex makes a face, remembering some of the worse boarding houses. “No, joking aside, this place is really fucking nice.”

John grins. “Thanks. I mean, it’s not like it’s mine, but I guess one day… My mom can take credit for the gardens.”

Alex doesn’t want to get back onto the topic of mothers. But maybe there’s something useful here. “Oh, yes, true - oldest son gets to inherit. No pressure there, huh?”

John shakes his head. “You have no idea. And if I ever try to sell the place, I’d be spitting on like two hundred years of history or something.”

“Some history should be spat on.”

John winces. “Yeah. I guess I try not to think about all that.”

“Which is _precisely_ why you need to let loose and get drunk with me. Glad we agree.” He smirks.

John holds out his hand for a high-five. “Priorities.”

Alex grins and high-fives back, but he catches John’s wrist lightly before he can pull away. “Look, I just wanted to say - your secret’s safe with me. I’m not gonna say anything to anyone.”

John looks away. “I never even really said-- Well… thanks, I suppose.”

Alex smiles sadly. “True. See, even better, complete deniability.”

“You think like my dad.”

“Hey, the old man might have some prehistoric ideas about the world, but you could learn a thing or two from him.”

John rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I hear that about five times a day. Don’t _you_ start.”

Alex mimes zipping his lips. “Anyway. I should let you get back to your homework.”

John glances regretfully at his textbook. “I guess. Yeah.”

“Hey, if you wanna stop by my room later, I can quiz you.”

John looks genuinely pleased. “Really? Thanks, I freaking need the help. These dates just go in one ear and out the other.”

“No sweat. The key is to build the big picture first and then worry about the details.”

John grins. “Noted. Seriously though, thanks. For distracting me.”

“Yeah. Same.”

John picks his textbook up morosely and flips back to the now slightly crumpled page he’s been looking at. 

Alex gets up from the couch. “Oh, uh, one last thing.”

John looks up. “Yeah?”

“Your dad mentioned something about a library? Said I could go in and look around?”

John laughs. “Yeah - if you go out this door here, walk up the stairs and just go through the first door after dad’s room.”

“Um, right. If I don’t show up for dinner, send a search party, okay?”

John laughs. “I’ll head it personally. Enjoy, I guess.”

“Thanks.” Alex turns to leave. “Catch you later. Looking forward to it.”

“Glad someone’s making use of it, read something interesting for me.”

“Ugh, I meant hanging out. I’m not that much of a nerd.”

“Hmm, coulda fooled me. But yeah, same.”

Alex waves a hand, laughing, and heads up the stairs.

\-----

Following John’s directions, Alex finds the library easily enough. The door is ajar, and when he nudges it open tentatively, he sees that he’s not alone.

Martha is standing in front of one of the glass-fronted book cabinets - who the fuck keeps books behind glass? - and is examining her reflection, turning this way and that as she pinches at her stomach and lifts or lowers her chin. She’s pouting as she holds her phone up to her ear.

“I mean,” she says into the phone, chatty and familiar, “I probably could lose a few more.”

There’s a muffled response and Martha frowns more deeply. 

“No, he didn’t _say_ anything. But, like, I just know?”

Alex hovers uncertainty, but the lure of the brimming shelves is too strong to resist. He clears his throat and eases the door open the rest of the way.

Martha jumps a little, but her startled expression goes dark almost instantly. 

“I’ll call you back,” she says, and hangs up. 

Alex gives her a neutral sort of smile. “Hey, Maggie,” he says coolly, getting her name wrong on purpose simply because of how funny it is to watch her fighting between politeness and anger.

There’s no battle today. “What the _fuck_ is your deal, man?”

Alex raises his eyebrows. He had the impression that she was feisty, but he hasn’t had any one-on-one interactions with her - there have always been siblings or Henry around.

“Jeez, sorry,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Are you, uh, studying?”

“No one usually comes in here,” she snaps back. “It _used_ to be private.”

Alex doesn’t comment on the fact that she has her own room, or that there are so many spaces in this house that it would take ten times as many people to fill them all. He shrugs. 

“And anyway, are you _allowed_ to be in here?” she asks, a little too haughty for a teenager.

Alex rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’m not gonna steal anything.” 

She sighs loudly, but he sees a flicker of discomfort in her eye and realises his snarky comeback was not entirely off the mark.

“Did my father actually give you permission?”

Alex crosses his arms. “Yes, in fact. After breakfast.” 

Her voice goes low and menacing. “I know you’re up to something.”

Alex sits down on the armrest of a plush leather couch and crosses his arms. “Oh yeah? What exactly am I up to?” He asks it sarcastically, though he’s wondering how much he may have inadvertently revealed.

She strides right up close, so she can glare down at him. “You’re nothing special. Just like the others. I bet you think you can use my dad to get favours or some fancy job or something.”

Alex snorts derisively. But, shit, he’s either been too obvious, or she’s incredibly perceptive. “Hey, I didn’t choose to come here,” he reasons.

“He’s just gonna chew you up and spit you out like all the rest.”

“Who? Henry?”

She flinches a little at the sound of her father’s first name. “Whatever reason he chose you for, it’s not for your own good.”

“Is that a threat?” he scoffs. He has no idea where she’s going with this, but he’s paying close attention. Could this have something to do with previous foster kids?

“No.” Martha rolls her eyes. “It’s a fact. I see what you’re doing. It’s not gonna work.”

He frowns in mock confusion, allowing her to continue.

“I’m just so sick of you people coming in here and--”

“ _You people?_ ” Alex interrupts, his hackles suddenly up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Us poor people? Us brown people? Us immigrants? Because like it or not, I’m as much of an American citizen as you are.”

“Ugh!” She actually stamps her foot childishly. “No! You - you fucking opportunists!”

“I’m not--” 

She cuts him off. Her eyes narrow. “He’s never gonna choose you. John comes first. Then me.”

Alex’s brows draw in even further. “I don’t--”

She glares. “And stop fucking with John, okay?”

“What?” Alex says with a startled half-laugh. 

“He doesn’t deserve your bullshit. Don’t make his life harder.”

“What?”

“I’m keeping my eye on you, Alex. If you do something to hurt him you’re gonna have to deal with me.”

“ _What?_ ”

She flicks her hair over her shoulder and walks out.

Alex stares after her, impressed and intrigued. Maybe he should tread a little more carefully until he finds out exactly what Martha’s gotten all worked up about. Or, maybe, he needs to use the _opposite_ approach - show his daring and nerve, prove he isn’t cowed by Henry’s big house and important job and piercing grey stare.

He skims the shelves and finds one of the Burke books, and he also pulls a few other volumes off the shelves by people with Latin-sounding names. He’s not going to let Henry catch him out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat on Tumblr - my-deer-friend!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys get drunk - an ode in three parts.

John stumbles back into Alex’s room and closes the door behind him a little too loudly, giggling nervously. He’s holding a bottle of cola that he swiped from the downstairs fridge. 

Shit. They’re really _doing_ this. 

“Okay,” he says, “This might help with the taste. How the heck do people drink this stuff?”

Alex is lounging on his bed, stretched out like a contented cat. “Oh, if you want to get drunk bad enough, you just grit your teeth and bear it. Pour me some.”

John unscrews the cap and it fizzes up a little, the result of his frantic dash up the stairs. “Shit.” He wipes his hand on his jeans and then pours a bit into each of their glasses. Hopefully that will do something to mask the sharp, bitter taste of the cheap vodka that Alex swiped from goodness-knows-where.

John’s heart is racing, and it has nothing to do with his quick dash up the stairs. He almost backed out of this plan a few times, ready with any one of a dozen excuses he’s trotted out before to get out of parties and other unsanctioned activities with his friends. But, almost like he could smell John’s hesitation, Alex has been egging him on. He’s awfully persistent.

And so here they are, already a few throat-burning rounds in, John’s cheeks just starting to flush and his iron grip on his composure easing just a little. 

Alex takes a long sip and smacks his lips. “Better. Anyway,” he glances at John with a smirk, “Enough stalling, Laurens. Wasn’t the whole point of tonight to trade some secrets?”

“Um.” John takes a sip too, and grimaces; the taste is better now, but he’s still in two minds about this. 

For one, it’s been a few weeks since Alex arrived, and John just can’t get a proper read on him - half the time he’s arrogant and brash, sucking up to dad and acting like he’s smarter than everyone in the room combined, and the rest of the time he’s focused and intent, almost secretive, locked up in his bedroom. Then, when they were chatting last weekend, there was the odd little glimpse of Alex as a normal kid, funny and sensitive, a little self-conscious. He just can’t figure out which of these personas is the closest to the true one.

But more worryingly for right now, Alex was also really perceptive, seeing right through John’s masks like he wasn't even wearing them. He’s terrified of what else he might reveal unintentionally. John has survived this long by keeping his personal matters and opinions firmly to himself. 

So he hedges. “I guess. But we don’t have to,” he says, trying to sound casual.

Alex rolls his eyes and gestures at the bottle of vodka John is still holding. “You clearly aren’t drunk enough yet. Seriously, I swear I’m a steel trap. And maybe I’ll drink so much that I won't even remember any of this tomorrow. Haven’t decided yet.”

John smiles nervously and pours more vodka into his glass. Maybe Alex is right. And it might be nice to let loose for once, remember that he is still just a teenager. He can always make stuff up if it gets uncomfortable… not that he’s any good at lying. Hmm. Better just to stay silent if he can help it. “Okay. Yeah. Fine.” He doesn’t even sound certain to his own ears, but he takes a big drink and coughs a little. “Scoot up.”

Alex pulls his legs in and sits up a little straighter, making space for John to flop down next to him on the bed. He smiles, almost fondly. “Hey, you can start if you want. I don’t mind.”

John doesn’t know the rules for a dangerous game like this. Maybe he should have gone to a few more of those parties after all. “Ummm… Do I just - ask you whatever I want?”

Alex shrugs. “Sure. Maybe we can start with dumb stuff to warm up.”

“Uh. Okay…” John racks his tipsy brain for ideas - something just a little edgy that won’t risk straying into dark territory. “When was the last time you lied to someone?”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Hm. This feels like I’m at confession or something. Well, I told Henry I was going to the library earlier, when I was actually getting this.” He holds up the bottle of vodka and shrugs. “Maybe not super exciting, but true.”

“Oh. Okay, I guess that’s not too bad.”

Alex grins mysteriously. “Okay, how about… have you ever cheated on an exam? I’m genuinely curious about this one.”

“Of course not! That would just be wrong. I bet _you_ haven’t, either.”

Alex shrugs. “Well… No, not really. But it’d be so easier to get Henry off your back if you could pull a few more As. You wouldn’t be hurting anyone.”

John frowns. Alex is right about that, considering the grief he gets every time he brings home a B grade. “Yeah, but… It’s…” John rolls his eyes at himself. He can’t even _imagine_ doing it. “No. Too much time spent in church, I guess.”

Alex laughs and pats John’s shoulder sympathetically. “You gotta get over all that Christian guilt, man. Okay, shoot. Go bigger if you want.”

“Okay. Um. Uhh…” John feels himself go a little red. After their last conversation, where Alex was talking so brazenly about his romantic adventures, John has been desperate to hear more. Maybe he can even learn something. “What’s the, ah, furthest you’ve gone with someone?”

Alex laughs and sees right through him. “I knew you’d come back to this. Uh-- I’ve given head a few times. Standard stuff. Made out with guys and girls. Given _and_ received some handjobs.”

“Oh.” John goes even redder. How does Alex just _say_ these words like they’re not a big deal? “Uh. Cool.”

Alex rolls his eyes at him, but he looks amused. “ _You_ asked. Trust me, once you realise it doesn't have to be a big thing, it’s so much more fun. Okay, what about you? I’m asking the same question.”

“I didn’t say it was a big thing,” John mutters defensively and takes another sip. “But, um, nothing like that. Kissing, mostly. A bit of - um - touching and stuff.”

Alex waggles his eyebrows. “Over the clothes or under?”

John wants to melt into the ground. He tries to avoid thinking about the details, but they flood in to spite him - Martha Manning’s hair curled up in a fancy hairstyle on her head, her green silk junior-prom dress, the awkwardness of leaning over the console between them in the car. How sickly sweet and flowery she smelled. How uncomfortably soft her skin was. “Over, mostly. Yeah, really nothing special.”

Alex takes another long drink and nods. “Cool. Okay… oh wait, shit, it’s your turn.”

John struggles for a question. “Ugh. This is hard. Biggest regret?”

Alex frowns, looking down into his drink and biting his lip. “Okay. That’s a tough one. Uh… I wish I’d done a lot of things differently when I was younger, I guess. You know, with my mom and stuff. Like maybe if I’d known better, I could have gotten her help in time. Yeah, that, I suppose.”

It’s been four years since he lost his mom, and John still feels the instant, bone-deep pang of his own echoed grief. “Shit, Alex - I’m sorry.”

Alex waves his hand. “It’s been ages. Anyway, if I’m gonna ask some hard-hitters, it’s only fair you get some good answers.” 

John stares off into the middle distance for a moment as he thinks of his mother and all the things he regrets, too. “I fought with her,” he says, without really meaning to. Alex looks at him. “Like, a week before she… It was so dumb.”

Alex shrugs. “Yeah, but I doubt she took it to heart. I don’t even _remember_ what I last said to my mom, since we were both so out of it. You never really know, anyway. That it’ll be the last time.”

“Yeah, I guess. What do you mean, though - out of it?” He’s curious about this, too. Alex hasn’t said a word about his personal life other than briefly mentioning he has a brother somewhere. When Alex doesn’t speak for a moment, John cringes. “You don’t have to tell me, sorry.”

Alex sighs. “Nah, it’s fine. I just meant that we were both pretty sick - dengue fever - so I don’t really remember much of that last week. I think it’s probably a good thing, though.”

“If you say so.” John finishes what’s in his glass and pours himself another. His fingertips are starting to go a little numb. “Okay, your turn I think?”

Alex nods, taking another long sip. Then he grins, shaking his head as though to clear it. “Okay. What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”

John groans. “How much time do you have?” He pouts and looks across at the opposite wall, trying to think of a few good anecdotes from the dozens of humiliating things he’s done in his life that immediately spring to mind. “Hmm. I think it’s a tie between when my dad made me introduce myself to one of his colleagues and I got my own name wrong, and the time when I hit a ball into the face of a guy I was kinda into with my polo mallet and broke his nose. Good enough for you?”

John casually slips in the mention of Charlie, his heart pounding. He’s never said out loud that he liked another boy before. His throat tightens in anticipation of Alex’s sneering response.

But Alex’s eyes widen and he lets out a raucous laugh instead, too loud to be discreet. He clamps a hand over his mouth. “Shit, who did you introduce yourself as?”

And just like that, John’s tight chest eases a little. Alex doesn't seem to care at all. Maybe… maybe he really is someone that John can talk to about stuff like this? 

He buries his face in his hands, half in relief and half in shame as he remembers the incident at the congressional dinner. “Henry.”

Alex gapes. “Oh my god, that’s too good! What did he say?”

“I’m glad my suffering amuses you,” John teases, but he’s suddenly feeling almost giddy as he thinks - maybe it is okay, maybe all of this is actually perfectly normal. Or perhaps it’s just the alcohol. “I was just a little kid and I was super nervous. He just laughed and made some stupid joke about how much I admired him.” John rolls his eyes. “The usual smooth bullshit.”

“You've gotta hand it to him. He _is_ pretty smooth. And I’m guessing it didn’t work out with the guy whose nose you broke?”

The question is casual, easy, without a hint of ridicule. “Weren’t you paying attention earlier? No.” John snorts, thinking about how mad Charlie was, even after John sent him a new saddle as an apology gift. “Same question.”

Alex winces and laughs down at his drink. “Uhh-- That blunder my first morning sucked, you know,” he rolls his eyes, “Accidentally shit-talking Georgetown. Otherwise… Oh, I guess one time I was really drunk and I nearly threw up sucking a guy off.”

“You - what?” John’s eyes go wide. “That can happen?”

Alex winces. “Yeah. You’ve never-- Well, if you gag when it-- I was really drunk and he was pretty big, so…”

John opens his mouth, then closes it, fighting to find words. “Uh. I have so many questions.”

Alex drags a hand through his hair. “Way to prolong my torture. Like what?”

Unbelievably, he’s got an opening here to ask about some of the things that have been rolling around in his mind for years now - things he can’t exactly ask anyone about, or look up online given how his father monitors his internet usage. “Umm… Shit, I don’t even know _how_ to ask this… Is it, uh, nice to do that? It’s just, it seems a bit awkward and strange to do that to someone and…” He trails off.

Alex looks thoughtful. “It’s kind of hot to see someone really worked up because of you. Yeah, I dunno. It’s not the most fun if they don’t know what they’re doing and they just try and jam it in your face, but… it can be fun.”

Shit. He’s probably going to be one of those clueless idiots. John takes a long drink. “I wish there was some way to just… get the first time over with.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “It _is_ supposed to be fun, you know? Maybe just find some other eighteen year old virgin to do it with so you’re both as awkward as each other.”

John sighs. “I dunno, that sounds like a recipe for disaster. I wish you could just--” He realises a second too late what he’s just said. He _has_ been thinking about all of Alex’s escapades, about how convenient it would be to have Alex just show him what to do, but to actually suggest out loud that his own foster brother... “Uh. I mean. Shit. I don’t mean _you_ you. I just mean, like… someone who knows what to do?”

Alex laughs, though it’s tinged with discomfort. Shit. John has messed up. “I mean - I doubt you’d find it difficult to pull some hot older guy. You’re a catch.”

“Ha ha,” John says flatly. He can’t even find someone his own age who he isn’t absolutely terrified of approaching.

Alex rolls his eyes. “John, you’re awkward as all hell, but you _do_ know you’re good looking, right? And you’re a nice guy. Plus a lot of people like the whole self-conscious, blushing-virgin shtick.”

John just groans. Alex is far too perceptive for his own good. Desperate to change away from this humiliating thread, he says, “Is it my turn? Or yours? I lost track.”

Alex frowns. “I think it’s mine? Okay… I’m curious about your dad. What’s the most trouble you’ve ever been in with him?”

“That’s low, Hamilton.” John sighs. There are too many incidents to count. “I think it’s less one specific thing and more just one long slide down the slope of disappointment.”

Alex pouts sympathetically. “Hey, if you really don’t wanna go down the path he’s set for you, maybe him being disappointed means you’re doing it right?”

John hasn’t ever thought of it that way, and it gives him pause, but almost two decades of upbringing steer him back. “Cute, but no. I’m not _allowed_ to get out of it. It’s just a question of how long it will take for him to beat me into shape.”

Alex grimaces. “He seems like a massive asshole sometimes.”

“And just an ordinary-sized asshole the rest of the time. Look.” John sighs, saying out loud the mantras he repeats to himself when he’s sleepless or scared or angry. “Deep down, he’s just doing what he thinks is right. He’s human. Yeah, he’s a dick, but he’s also my dad, and he really does care about us. I just wish that his version of caring would sometimes involve asking me what _I_ want.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Am I allowed to ask about your dad?”

Alex sighs heavily. “Sure - those are the rules. Since we’re on the subject of asshole dads, shoot.”

“Um, I guess I was just wondering why you don’t stay with him. I mean, he’s still around, right?”

Alex rolls his eyes and gives a bitter laugh. “Oh, he’s still kicking, all right. He left my mom when I was like ten, but they never married so I think there’s some sort of custody issue there. Since I’m the bastard son, you know? I wish I knew where he was, so I could give him a piece of my mind. I think he was in the UK at one point, but I don’t know anymore.”

“Mmm. So I have too much father and you don’t have enough? If only we could average them out.” John laughs humourlessly.

Alex shrugs. “I think if we mixed them both we’d just get one mega-asshole dad, not two okay ones. It’s risky chemistry.”

“Ha. True.” John pauses. “Did that count as my question? Sorry.” He holds up his glass and notices with some surprise that it’s empty, so he sets about refilling it. “I think this stuff is kicking in bigtime.”

Alex winks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Me too. Yeah, it can count. Lemme ask a fun one… Who was your first celebrity crush?”

“Oh shit.” John pours an extra splash of vodka into his glass. “Did you ever see _Baywatch_?”

Alex grins broadly. “Oh, of course. It was just shirtless guys and girls in skimpy bikinis, right?”

“Yeah basically. Anyway there was this one actor on there, don’t remember his name but he played, uh, Hobie? Yeah. You?”

Alex tilts his head. “Hmm, my mom liked old movies a lot, I always thought Julie Andrews was really pretty. And what’s his name in _Roman Holiday_? Gregory Peck? Yeah.”

“Ah, we never really watched that kinda stuff. I’ll look it up.”

Alex frowns. “Funny, I’d have thought Henry would have preferred that stuff to the obscene, godless films and TV shows they make today.” He laughs. “And I’m surprised he let you watch _Baywatch._ ”

“Oh, he didn’t. But he was also never around, and mom didn’t care, and we had a sibling pact not to say anything. It was easy enough to find a TV somewhere out of the way when it was on.”

Alex nods. “True. Me and James used to watch R-rated movies at our friend Ned’s house because my mom was sort of strict about that.”

“Jeez, Alex, you were like, what - twelve? Watching _that_ stuff?”

Alex laughs. “You Christians have _The Passion of the Christ_ \- that film’s gory as hell. It was mostly horror, we weren’t watching porn movies or anything.”

“Oh, I guess that’s fine then.”

“Okay… I think it’s my go? Is this the drunkest you’ve ever been?” He grins. “Personally, I’m really starting to feel it.”

John giggles nervously. “Uh, yeah, by a lot. Fuck, if dad came in now, we’d be in _so_ much shit.”

Alex smirks. “I think I was drunker when I threw up on that guy’s dick, but yeah… I don’t know if I could act convincingly sober right now.’ 

“Wait, wait, wait, didn’t you say you _almost_ threw up?”

“Well… it was only a little bit.”

“And if you were _that_ drunk, then… Uh. Should you have been doing that in the first place?” John tries to remember the mandatory consent talk they all had to sit through after what their high-school principal referred to as an ‘incident’ that happened in the class above his.

“I did _want_ to. And I’m pretty sure he was fairly pissed as well.”

John frowns, concentrating hard. “Oh, right. So it’s fine if _both_ people are drunk?”

Alex pouts. “I dunno, I think it’s a case by case thing. Just- if you feel weird about it, get out, you know? I was pretty happy to blow him, until - well, yeah.”

John laughs awkwardly. “If feeling weird about it means you should stop, that pretty much rules out the chance that I’ll _ever_ do it, then…”

Alex laughs like John’s just said something stupid. “I mean it’ll probably be a bit awkward the first time, but that’s different to you being, like, genuinely scared or uncomfortable. Anyway. It’s your turn, right? God, it’s getting harder to keep track.”

“Have you ever done anything illegal?” 

Alex laughs, holds up his drink. “Do you mean apart from underage drinking?”

“Shit. Yeah, apart from that.” 

“Uh - I guess I’ve smoked weed. I’ve, like, lifted cheap stuff before, food and shit. But I haven’t robbed any banks or anything.”

It’s such a surprising comment that John laughs. “What, you mean you’re _not_ an international supervillain?”

Alex rolls his eyes, but his tone goes darker. “Contrary to what everyone around here thinks, no - I wasn’t, like-- Drinking the blood of virgins or anything before I came here.”

“What do you mean? No one thinks that.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “Seriously? Everyone at school - hell, your siblings even - they think I’m like, a gangster from the hood or something, just because I’m in the foster system. It’s sorta funny.”

John cringes a little, second-hand embarrassment on behalf of whatever shitty things the others have been saying. He makes a mental note to have a word with them about it. “I mean… We totally understand that you…” What’s a good way to say ‘had a rough life’ without sounding like exactly the same kind of asshole? John can’t think of one, so he changes tack. “Um. No one thinks you’re some sort of juvenile delinquent or anything.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I’d have thought different from how some of the teachers act.”

John feels a little swell of indignation. “Oh. Um, wow, that’s bullshit. You should report them.” That’s what he would do.

Alex laughs awkwardly. “Do you think I want it to get back to your dad? That I’m whining about how badly I’m being treated at my fancy new private school, which is completely paid for by him?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I didn’t think of that. Do you want me to say something?” He knows a few ways to get Henry to listen.

Alex shakes his head. “No, of course not. Everyone’s fine, it’s just - something in how they talk to me. But I’m used to it. It’s really-- It’s fine.”

He might be drunk, and an idiot, but even John picks up that Alex isn’t as fine with this as he says. And he gets that Alex wants to drop the subject - but he can’t help himself from adding, “Okay. But you’ll tell me if it gets too bad, promise?” 

Alex smiles and claps him on the shoulder. “Ever the older brother. Sure, whatever. But I doubt it’ll get any worse than I can handle.”

John frowns down at his glass. Why is it empty again? “Yeah, okay. Your turn?”

Alex drains the last of his glass and puts it down a little too heavily. “Oh, yeah, okay. Hmm, biggest insecurity?”

It’s almost like Alex has been studying him, so that he can laser-target John’s weak spots with the most acute and pointed questions. 

He groans loudly. “It’s like a ten-way tie.” John starts counting off on his fingers. “Not confident enough. Not white enough. Not straight enough. Not smart enough. Not tough enough. Not nice enough. That’s like, what, seven?”

Alex looks confused. “Not _nice_ enough? What? You’re, like - _super_ nice.”

John shrugs away the comment. “Not really. I was an asshole to my mom half the time. I shout at Harry constantly. I know I should be easier on him, but if I don’t try to put him in line, then dad will get involved and… Let’s just say it’s easier coming from me.”

John doesn’t want the other boys getting the same treatment he’s had to put up with. He wishes they would both agree to follow his example and control themselves a little better, at least in Henry’s presence. But Harry’s just too full of rage that he refuses to tamp down, and Jemmy overcompensates too much the other way. 

Alex rolls his eyes. “Okay - a few things. First, Harry is a little shit. I don’t blame you. Second, you’re the oldest, so like - duh, of course you’re going to be worn out from, well, wiping the drool off all these kids’ chins. I just think you can’t really judge when it comes to siblings, they’re always assholes to each other.”

John looks at Alex, a little wide-eyed. His heart thuds, a mixture of terror and surprise at the fact that Alex has seen through this too - this front that John has worked so hard to cultivate. “Um… Thanks. For saying that. It’s-- It’s been hard.”

Alex nods quickly. “I fucking bet. Why does your dad even hire nannies? I swear you and Martha do most of it.”

Does Alex have to question _everything_? John has been perfectly happy doing all these things without examining them too closely. It’s just what he thought was expected of him. But - by who?

He doesn’t have a good answer, and that scares him.

Again, he reaches for a mantra. “It’s important. I don’t mind. They’re good kids - even Harry.” Saying it calms him a little.

Alex smiles, but when John looks over at him he sees it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Jemmy’s cute, I guess. They’ll appreciate it when they’re older. And, surely... practically raising four little gremlins, having Henry as your dad, losing your mom - that makes you tough, right?”

John leans his head back against the wall. “I don’t _feel_ tough. Just, tired. Like I can’t ever catch up. You know?”

Alex exhales. “Yup. I know.” They share a knowing look. “Okay, your turn.”

“Time for something dumb,” John sighs, relieved at the chance to lighten the mood. “Do you have any weird talents?”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Good one. Um… I can write with both hands, kinda. I can pick a lock. Uh… I dunno, I guess I’m good at reading people, but that’s not _weird_ ,” he laughs.

“Woah, woah, hang on… pick a lock?”

“Yup. It’s not as difficult as you think.”

John wants to ask - _Why? How did something like that ever come up? Can you show me?_ But he’s not brave enough to go there, so he just says, “I’ll be sure to call you up when _I_ want to rob a bank, then. Okay, you go.” 

Alex tips a little more vodka into his glass and nods. “Okay. Uh… What’s… what’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to you?”

“Oh.” John bites the inside of his cheek and looks down. He knows the answer to this one immediately, like a punch to the gut, and his throat clenches. He can’t go there. “Um. Is it okay if we skip that one?” 

Alex looks a little annoyed, or perhaps it’s concerned - John’s boozy brain can’t figure it out. “Uh - okay, as long as I get a skip too. Um, sorry. You _can_ tell me, you know. But, if you _really_ don’t want to...”

John chews on his lip. Maybe sharing it will take some of the sting out. “It’s… I know he didn’t mean it. But my dad said it was my fault that mom died. He apologised later, basically the only time he ever did. It’s dumb.”

Alex stares. “John, that’s-- That’s not dumb, that’s fucking horrible.” He definitely looks angry now. “Why the fuck would he say that?”

John shakes his head. He feels like he’s already said too much, and he doesn’t want to give Alex the wrong idea about Henry. “It was a rough time, that’s all. You know how it is. He _didn’t_ mean it. I was late getting to the hospital, it was my turn to visit that day… But it’s not like there was anything I could have done.”

Alex inhales deeply. “I mean- yeah, I get it, it’s a fucking rough time. As long as-- Well. He apologised. But that’s-- Shit, John, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” John says softly. “I’m more worried about Polly. Mom got sick right after she was born. When she gets older, I hope she doesn’t feel like it was her fault somehow.”

Alex nods slowly. “Do you get the impression she does?”

“Dunno. I think she’s still too small to really understand.”

“I think if you ever get the sense that she does - well, like, say something, I guess? I’d have liked someone to say that to me after my mom.” 

Alex tries to say this in an off-hand way, but John sees the conflict play across his face - maybe because he’s so used to seeing it on his own. He needs to remember this, to find a chance to tell Alex that some things are beyond even his control. 

That’s what a good big brother would do, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk shenanigans part 2!

Alex brandishes his glass towards John. “I think it’s your go.”

John forces a smile. “Okay, hopefully this will be less depressing. Weirdest date you’ve been on?”

Alex whistles. “Shit. Okay, well, I haven’t really been on, like, formal dates or anything, but one time some guy I liked took me to this party in another borough and it was _really_ fucking weird.”

“Details, Alex!”

An evasive grin. “It was this dingy apartment with like eight people living in it. Some hippy was playing a mandolin, everyone was tripping balls, two people were having really loud sex in the other room. It was a wild night. I was - ah, kinda freaked out, not gonna lie.”

“Wow.” John is genuinely impressed. He can’t imagine how grown-up Alex must have felt to be at a party like that, with drugs and sex and all the rest. “Did, um, anything happen with the guy?”

Alex shrugs, smiling a little coyly. “Yeah, he gave _me_ head, so… It was worth it.”

“Oh _wow_. That must have been… uh. Good?” 

Alex raises his eyebrows playfully. “Yeah. It was.”

John builds himself up to ask another awkward question, though it’s a little easier now that the vodka is numbing him properly. “Is it… Um. Can I ask you about the, ah, mechanics of that?”

Alex laughs and glances at John’s half-empty glass. “Sure. And, steady with that stuff.”

“Don’t start lecturing me, this is meant to be a safe space.” John takes a sip, pointedly. “Okay so. It’s not like we have proper sex ed here, other than ‘don’t do it, god is watching’. So, um. Sorry if this is a stupid question. But, like, the whole, uhhh, blowjob thing. How exactly does it work?” 

Alex winces, but he looks amused. “Okay, keep in mind that I’m not an expert or anything.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I’m pretty _good_ , but… well, it’s not really rocket science. You kind of just try out different things and see what they respond well to. Like… you don’t have to deepthroat it just to get them to come or anything.” 

“Oh.” John is a little confused. He didn’t realise there was a difference, but he’s too embarrassed to ask. “So is it just, like, sucking or...?”

Alex runs a hand through his hair, a little pink in the face. “Well, you can use your hand too, and yeah - you can suck a bit. Use your tongue. Lips, whatever. Well, you have a dick, you know what feels good! Just - do that.”

“Yeah, I guess.” John cringes. “And then at the end, um… How do you…?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “If a guy is offended because you spit, then he’s an asshole. It _is_ kind of gross, especially if you’re not close. Oh, and it doesn’t even have to be in your mouth at all.”

“Okay.” The idea of having stuff like that in his mouth is really off-putting, and hearing Alex say the same is a big relief. It’s bad enough that he has to be gay - to be _bad_ at being gay would be even more humiliating. “So it’s not, um, weird if I think it sounds gross? Or if I don’t wanna do it?”

Alex shakes his head. “Nah, not at all. I mean, on paper, everything about sex sounds a bit gross. At some point you’ll probably wanna try it, and you _should_ , but don’t push yourself.”

“Yeah…” John mulls this over. “It’s all just a bit scary and confusing, I guess.”

Alex nods. “Totally. I mean, I make fun of you for the Christian guilt stuff, but my parents were pretty religious too, and it was kind of tough at first. So I get it.”

“Oh. But you’re totally cool about it now, right?”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Uh, well, I don’t know if internalised homophobia or that shit ever completely goes away. But I know, logically, it’s all bullshit. Having sex or being not-straight doesn’t have any morality attached. Intrinsically.”

John’s eyebrows draw together. “Logically is not the same as… psychologically.” His tongue stumbles over the word a little.

“Yeah, you’re right. But it’s good to be able to tell your brain that it’s being an idiot sometimes.”

“I guess. It’s just, I’ve spent all my life biting my tongue about shit like this. I keep waiting for a time when the pressure gets too much and I will just boil over - or when it will just be, somehow, okay to say it. But…”

Alex looks at him pensively. “I don’t think you should just hope for it to all become a non-issue one day. You have to work through that shit, you know? I mean, it will get better if you just put in the effort.”

“Yeah, sure,” John sighs, rolling his eyes. “I’ll squeeze it in right between school and dad and the kids and surviving long enough to get out of here.”

“Yeah…” Alex rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I am sort of coming around to the fact that you _did_ actually get dealt some shitty cards.”

John laughs. “Thanks, I guess? I just wish I could be more like you. You don’t give a shit what anyone thinks.”

Alex frowns. “I do, actually. I think I just have a pretty good idea of whose opinions of me I care about and whose I don’t.”

This is a little surprising, because John was under the impression that Alex was free of the burdens of other people’s judgement. “Dare I ask, where do I fall?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “So self-centered. I don’t want you to hate me or anything. Yeah, I guess I care about what you think of me, not that I can’t be chill around you.” 

John smiles. It feels a little wrong that calm, collected, arrogant Alex would care at all about the opinions of someone like him. “I think you’re the coolest person I know,” he admits, and he means it.

Alex’s eyes widen. “Dude, don’t use me as your role model or anything. I’m a wreck.” 

“No way. You’re so confident and grown up and, like, you know stuff about the world that has never even occurred to me. I envy you.”

Alex hesitates, his eyebrows drawn together. “But,” he says slowly, “Think of what it cost. Not to get all mopey, but... I’d almost rather be all naive and sheltered. I wouldn’t - but I’d definitely rather I hadn’t done all the foster care, moving all around the country, dad walking out, and all that shit.”

“Oh. Yeah.” John frowns. He can sort of see what Alex is getting at, but considering his own disaster of a life, John would be willing to make that trade in a heartbeat. Then again, maybe that’s just his privilege talking, as Alex would say. John can’t fully appreciate the difficulty of dealing with the shit that Alex has faced. He’s never not had his own home, for one. “I guess it’s like a grass-is-greener thing.”

“For sure. And _I_ probably wouldn’t suit _your_ upbringing, either. The way you have to put up with shit. There’s crap on both sides.”

Again, it’s like Alex sees something in him that even John is barely willing to acknowledge. He clenches his fists at his sides. “You have no idea just how… how _angry_ I feel sometimes.”

Admitting this feels almost as profound as admitting that he likes boys. Anger is not on the list of sanctioned emotions.

Alex puts down his now-empty glass and refuses to pity him. “Honestly, John, I feel that. But you do _not_ have the monopoly on misanthropy.”

“Big fucking word for someone who’s had this much vodka. Speaking of…” John reaches for the bottle, but as he grabs for it, his hand brushes against Alex’s arm by accident - just a brief, innocent little graze. But it’s like he’s been zapped with an electric current. All of the easy rapport he’s been feeling vanishes as he pulls his hand back abruptly. “Oh, shit, sorry!”

What the fuck is _wrong_ with him?

Alex doesn’t seem bothered. He laughs and opens the bottle for him. “Your hand-eye coordination’s going. Here.” 

“Thanks.” John blushes and holds out his glass. When Alex pours him a measure, he doesn’t add any coke before he takes a big sip. It’s still harsh, but it seems to be going down a little easier.

Alex looks impressed. He pours a little of the vodka into his glass, and then refills John’s. He holds his glass up. “I feel like we should toast.”

John says the first thing that comes to mind. “To dead mothers and asshole fathers.” 

Alex beams, clinks the rim of his glass against John’s and readies himself to knock back the vodka. “We have so much more in common than I would have thought.”

“We do!” 

Alex downs the drink with a grimace and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Delicious,” he says sarcastically.

The tip of John’s nose feels numb. The steel grip he usually keeps on his tongue seems to be slipping. “Can’t be any worse than having a guy jizz in your mouth, right?” he quips. 

Alex laughs, light and a little hoarse. “Vodka has a much stronger taste than that. But, yeah - less gross.”

“Oh, so you’re saying this is good practice then?” John grabs the bottle again, pours another splash for himself and waves the bottle towards Alex. Funny. The more vodka he has, the more of it he wants.

Alex hesitates, wiping his forehead clumsily. “Uh, dude, maybe-- Like, wait a bit. It catches up with you.”

He doesn’t want to wait, because - shit, it’s amazing, this growing feeling of looseness and confidence. Is this how Alex feels _all_ the time? He wants to keep hold of this, so John downs his vodka and grins, then stands up off the bed onto stumbling, wobbly legs. 

“Don’t be stupid. I’m fine. I’m _great_.” 

Alex swears under his breath and grabs the bottle, pours himself another drink. “Fuck it. I’m not looking after you if you start throwing up.”

John shakes his head, then stumbles a little as he loses his balance. He starts pacing back and forth across the room. He has never felt this brave before. This energised. This full of emotion and feeling and inspiration. This reckless.

“You know what?” he says, a little giddy.

Alex takes a gulp of his vodka. “What?”

“Maybe I should…” This is insane. “You know, just go up to dad and be like - ‘fuck you, you messed up old asshole, just leave me the fuck alone!’”

The idea instantly flushes him with fear, and normally that would be enough to muzzle him, but… why shouldn’t he? What could Henry actually do? Shout at him? John has heard it all before. _Hit_ him? His father has never raised a hand to any of them - and besides, John’s just as tall as him now. Stronger. What the fuck is he so _scared_ of?

Alex laughs. “Bad, bad, _bad_ idea.” 

But John grins, not put off in the slightest. “And then I can be all, like, and another thing - I’m… I’m gay,” - shit, he’s just said it, he said _the word!_ \- “And you just have to _deal_ with it, and one day I’m gonna suck some guy’s dick and it’s gonna be gross but I _will_ and… and…”

He is rapidly losing coherence, tongue tangling itself up in drunken bravado.

Alex stands, a little shaky himself, and slings an arm around his shoulder. It’s awkward because of the height difference, but it’s nice - warm and affectionate. “Okay, okay dude, I love this angsty, confrontational John, but like, you should sit down.”

“Don’t wanna. I feel like… like I could just, I dunno, just…” He doesn’t have the right words for how he feels - big and brave and destructive and hot-blooded. He waves his free arm, and wobbles. “Woah.” Maybe Alex isn’t wrong. 

Alex pulls him back towards the bed with relative ease and pushes him down onto it. “Stay!” he commands, then crouches down to fumble for the vodka.

John laughs and flails blindly for Alex’s arm. “I’m not a dog, you can’t tell me to stay.” He gets a hold and tugs down.

Alex stumbles, letting out a yelp as he falls sideways and onto John, still clutching the neck of the vodka bottle. John tries to reach over for it. Alex squirms away. They quickly become a tangle of limbs on the bed, Alex cursing and struggling while John laughs.

“John! You’re - you’re so - annoying!”

Alex tries to get leverage with his elbow but just ends up digging it painfully into John’s ribs. Alex’s other arm swings around and bumps his forehead.

John tries to speak over his breathless laughter. “Stop-- You’re hitting my--” He can’t get the words out, so he grabs Alex’s wrists in his hands to hold him still.

Alex gives up, panting and out of breath. He glares at John from where he’s lying half on top of him, but his tone is playfully annoyed rather than angry. “You-- Fuck, you’re such an asshole! Let me go!”

Then, all at once, John realises the position they’re in. Bodies pressing together. Alex’s thigh over his hips. His shoulder pressed into John’s chest. Both of Alex’s thin wrists in his hands, the heartbeat thudding noticeably under his palms. Alex’s hair in his mouth - the smell of it, of _him._

Maybe all the sex talk is getting to him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been able to speak openly with Alex about some pretty personal stuff. Maybe it’s just the contact in his touch-starved skin. 

But John’s not supposed to react to the feel of Alex’s body in _this_ way.

His laughter cuts off. He pushes himself up and away, letting go and holding his hands up defensively, blushing furiously. “Oh, god, oh shit, I’m sorry!”

Alex sits up, shaking his hair out of his face and opening the bottle clumsily. “Ugh, it’s fine. You just need to keep it down. The last thing we need is Henry storming in.”

John can feel his face going deep red. “Sorry. I didn't mean to…”

Alex frowns. “It’s fine. Drop it, jeez.”

Shit. John’s heart is racing and his stomach is roiling. He needs to drink more - to wipe away this weird feeling and the memory of Alex’s squirming leg against his groin. He snaps the bottle out of Alex’s hand and drinks straight from it, coughing a little. 

Alex grabs it back from him, now looking properly annoyed. “Hey! I hadn’t even poured mine! You animal.”

John stares at his empty hand, then turns and looks at Alex. 

Fuck. The tightness in his chest is not going away - if anything, it gets worse as he takes in Alex’s tousled hair and smirking lips and long thin fingers wrapped around the neck of the vodka bottle.

Alex pauses, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “What?” He laughs self-consciously.

“You’re…” _Really fucking hot._ “I…” _Want to touch you, right now, right here, right on this bed._ “Fuck.” 

Alex laughs at his expression - wide eyes, mouth hanging open a little - and looks bewildered. “What? John, use your words.”

John narrows his eyes as he tries to make his brain work. Everything is screaming at him that this is wrong and bad and awful. And it’s not just the usual shame of catching himself looking at another boy. “If we… You’re my foster brother, right?”

Alex tilts his head. “That’s what the papers say.”

John laughs a little maniacally. “Yeah, exactly! It would be crazy.”

“What?” Alex does a double take, then laughs. “What the hell are you going _on_ about?”

How ridiculous. Of course he can’t do this. Alex is supposed to be like a brother to him. Besides, it’s not like Alex - bright, confident, sarcastic Alex - would even think of him in this way; he can do a lot better than the sad, self-conscious mess John’s made of himself.

“No, no, it’s fine,” John says, trying to make his tone reassuring, forgetting which parts he’s said out loud and which he’s only thought. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kiss you or anything.” 

Wait, wait, wait - did he actually just say that? 

He must have, because Alex’s mouth falls open. “Fuck, I hope not! You’re crazy.”

John’s laugh is a little panicked now. He pulls his legs into his chest. “Ha, yes, crazy. Mad. Fuck, I’m a complete disaster. What’s in that stuff?” He waves towards the bottle.

Alex rolls over to pick it up again and reads the back of the bottle. “Uhh... like forty percent pure alcohol. So you should stop.”

“Forty is like - less than half? Kid stuff.” John lunges over and grabs the bottle back, a little roughly, and swigs it. He needs to make sure he drinks enough to forget every second of this humiliating catastrophe of a night.

Alex wrestles the bottle back, suddenly laughing uncontrollably. Laughing _at_ him. “Shit - stop! Beer is like five! John!” He grabs John by the jaw, tries to stop him from drinking any more.

But John is taller and stronger. He grabs the bottle again, pulling away from the skin-crawling touch and holding Alex at arm’s length. “Five is less than half too.” He drinks again, sputtering.

Alex struggles against his grip, still laughing. “John! Fuck, at least leave me some! Come on!”

“Oh yeah?” John tilts the bottle dangerously towards Alex. “Open up.”

Alex swats his arm and shakes his head. “No! Pass it!”

“Ugh, fine!” John thrusts the bottle towards him. 

Alex takes a long swig. Then he leaps to his feet and darts to the other side of the room with the bottle. “Okay. You-- You have to stay over there. Give it ten minutes before you have any more.”

John frowns. He _needs_ to get black-out drunk. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Alex climbs up onto his desk and sits there, cross-legged with the bottle between his knees. “When you’re drunk, you… you need someone to, you know,” he shrugs, wiping his forehead. 

John stands up. He’s not angry, exactly, but he is filled a driving urgency. “I don’t need anyone to… to… _anything_.” He stumbles closer to where Alex is sitting.

Alex pulls his knees up to his chest, shaking his head with a shit-eating grin on his face. “John!” he whines, “Sit down! Let’s ask more questions! Just take a break!”

Almost right away, standing starts to feel like a bad idea, so John grabs the desk chair and sits down on it, backwards, arms crossed over the backrest. “Okay, ask.”

Alex bites his lip, looking surprised. “Oh, didn’t think that would work. Uhhh, okay. What’s your _worst_ habit?”

The words come out, true and harsh, before he can filter them. “Rolling over like a kicked dog for my dad. You?”

Alex laughs a little awkwardly. “Uh… poor impulse control. I kinda act in the moment _too_ much.”

“Oh yeah? What impulses are you poorly controlling now?”

Alex shrugs, smirking. “To come over there and slap the shit out of you for being such an asshole.”

John levels him with an intent stare. “Do it.” Might feel good. Might knock some sense into him.

But Alex just laughs again. “See? You’re being an idiot.” 

“Add it to my list of character flaws.” 

“It’s your turn,” Alex says, ignoring the comment.

“Okay. Guys or girls? If you had to choose.”

“Oh shit! That’s a good one. Dude, I don’t know.” Alex unscrews the top of the bottle pensively and takes a small drink. “Uh-- I guess I’ve done more with guys, so I’m pretty certain that I like them. But girls are so pretty, and sweet, and they’ve got cute little hands and shit. I dunno.”

“Can’t give me a straight answer?” John giggles, realising he’s made something like a joke.

Alex sticks his tongue out. “Ugh, asshole. It’d be a coin toss. Might say dudes tonight and chicks tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine. Go.”

Alex hums thoughtfully and raises the bottle to his lips again. John has to look away, because the sight of it is warping to something much less innocent in his mind. “Ooh, okay. Uh... have you ever... been caught doing something you shouldn’t have?”

“You mean, like, getting caught jerking off at a friend’s house during a sleepover?” John laughs. “Maybe.”

Alex gasps. “No way! That’s-- That’s so gross. But so fucking funny!”

John goes pink. “Umm… the worst part was, uh… you know.” He gestures vaguely at his lap.

“I don’t know.”

“You _know…_ like, not getting the chance to… finish.” He cringes.

Alex chokes around his laugh. “Ah shit, yeah! Damn, that does suck. But maybe you shouldn’t have been beating it in someone else’s house.”

“Yeah, and maybe you shouldn’t be such a judgey asshole. I bet you’ve done it.”

“Yeah, “Alex smirks. “But I’ve never been _caught._ ”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we reach new heights of drunkenness.

John reaches out his hand. “It’s been ten minutes. Gimme.”

Alex opens the bottle again and takes a swig. “No way has it already been ten minutes. Three, tops.”

“But _you’re_ drinking!”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Fine. Never let it be said I’m a hypocrite. But you have to come and get it.”

John grins, stands up from the chair with a little sway, and strolls over to the desk. He leans over and props one hand on the wall next to Alex’s head for balance. He realises a second too late that this position means their faces are inches apart.

Alex looks him in the eyes, steady and challenging. But for once, John doesn’t feel the need to back down.

He holds Alex’s gaze and stretches out his other hand. 

Alex smirks and presses the bottle into it. “You know, you’re-- You’re a lot more baller when you’re drunk.”

“Oh yeah?” John raises an eyebrow and takes a swig without looking away.

“But don’t lay it on _too_ thick.”

“My turn?”

Alex nods, leaning back against the wall and watching John through half-lidded eyes. “Shoot.”

John’s brain is stuck on a single track. “When you… if you end up sleeping with another guy... Are you gonna be on, like, the receiving end?”

Alex chortles. “Man, okay - for that one, you have to give me back the vodka. Then I’ll answer.”

John takes another half-sip before he hands the bottle back, holds onto it teasingly for a second before letting go. Alex takes a drink, swallowing thickly. John watches, entranced, as Alex flicks out his tongue to lick his lips clean.

“Okay, uh-- Well, I haven’t done that before, so I dunno what either way would be like. I, uh-- maybe for the first time I could bottom? Dunno. I don’t have a detailed plan.”

“I thought you had a plan for everything.”

Alex bites his lip. “I dunno, for sex I think I’d see how it plays out.”

“Hmm. Okay, fine. Be vague.”

“Why are you so desperate for details, hm? Go get someone to shove your dick into, then you’ll know what it’s like.”

John blushes, but Alex’s defensive tone spurs his defiance. “I might just do that.”

Alex beams. “That’s the spirit.”

“Speaking of?” John reaches out again.

Alex takes a sip and hands the bottle to John. “Okay, my turn. What’s the strangest dream you’ve ever had? Or, scratch that - the _sexiest_.”

“Ohhh. Oh shit.” It’s suddenly hard to keep standing again, so John pushes back from the wall, pulls the chair over, and sits down. But he feels like there’s too much distance between them all of a sudden, after the intimate closeness of him leaning over Alex, so he props one leg up on the table next to Alex’s knee. “It was kinda messed up? I was dreaming that a friend of mine, this guy I’ve been friends with since we were kids, you know... That he was staying over for some reason - this was in the dream, okay - and I got out of my bed and climbed into his bed and just started, uh, touching him and shit, while he was still asleep. I dunno why, but it was super hot.”

Alex’s eyebrows raise as he speaks. “Shit, man. I mean, it was just a dream, so you don’t have to feel bad about it or anything. It’s fine to find that shit hot as long as you don’t _actually_ do it.”

“Yeah, I would never. But I guess I liked that it was… uncomplicated? Like he didn’t really have to be involved.” He comes to this realisation only a second before he says it. Is he _really_ this pathetic? “I dunno, it’s messed up. But _you_ must have had some pretty sexy dreams too.”

Alex grins. “Okay there, Freud. I mean, like one third of my dreams are pretty sex-focused, so…”

“Who’s the pervert now, huh? What was the most recent one?”

Alex pulls his lips to one side. “Uh… okay, you know that guy that teaches, like, AP Trig or something?”

John’s eyes go wide. “A _teacher_?”

“Yeah. He’s hot. You haven’t noticed?”

“He’s a _teacher_.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “And he’s _hot._ And only like twenty-five or something. Anyway, I don’t know why, but he was covering my history class and for some reason I stayed behind and… well. It was a pretty good dream.”

“Oh my god. That’s… um, okay, yeah, I can see it.” John swallows. This feels almost as wrong as the whole foster-brother thing. “But you wouldn’t actually…?”

Alex reaches out for the bottle again. “Hmm, maybe once I’m eighteen. Wouldn't want to get him into any trouble.” He winks.

“Sixteen,” John says automatically. “In South Carolina. So you’d be fine.”

Alex gapes at him. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah? And it’s not like you have to be less than eighteen if the other person’s sixteen. Why? Did I just give you a bad idea…?”

Alex shrugs evasively. “No… Gimme that!”

John reaches the bottle away, as a stupid, arrogant, intoxicating thought strikes him. He doesn’t have enough of a filter left to stop it spilling out. “Only if you tell me - have you had dreams like that... about me?”

Alex’s mouth drops open. “Do you _really_ wanna know?”

“Well, fuck, if that’s not a clear enough answer.” John hands the bottle over, his hand trembling a little as he tries to stop himself from imagining exactly how Alex would have pictured them.

Alex grins and accepts it, raising it to his mouth. He pauses, just before the rim touches his lips. “Okay, well, now you have to tell _me._ ”

“Of course not!” He says it a little too quickly, even though it’s true. He hasn’t had those kinds of dreams about Alex - not yet, though that’s probably going to change now. The intrusive images are dancing through his mind with wild abandon tonight.

Alex purses his lips. “Okay, okay.” He takes a long drink.

John pulls his leg off the desk and props it on his chair instead. Maybe a little distance is safer, after all. “Uh, sorry. If that just got weird.”

Alex shrugs. “Nah, this is just what people talk about when they’re wasted.”

“Okay. I guess they also… _do_ stuff? That they shouldn’t?”

His mind keeps coming back to this. Why, oh why, is he opening this dangerous door? If only Alex would just slam it in his face already.

But Alex just raises his eyebrows playfully. “Oh? I thought you weren’t sure if that was okay?”

John glares down at the floor. “It’s _not_ okay. But then again, according to society, _I’m_ not okay. So what the fuck do people know anyway?”

Alex tilts his head, and instead of sneering that John’s sick, that he’s wrong, he just says, “I guess I see where you’re coming from.”

“Well? Do _you_ think it’s okay?”

_Say no, say no, say no._

Alex shrugs. “I mean, I’ve known you for less than two months, and it’s not like we’re _actually_ related. People are gonna fuck when they’re drunk. If they both want to, I guess it’s cool - as long as one isn’t, like, John-level wasted and the other only one drink in.”

John hugs his leg into his chest. He reaches his hand out; Alex looks down at it and passes him the bottle. John takes one sip, then another. 

“I think it’s for the best if I don’t remember any of this tomorrow,” he mutters.

Alex nods vigorously. “Same here. Shit, I’m really drunk, man.”

John tilts back the bottle again and takes two gulps, then passes it back. His head is properly swimming now. His ability to tell right and wrong is still intact, but the filters that usually keep a check on the wrong stuff are gone. But what’s the harm? Alex is just as badly off as he is.

“Well then, since we won’t remember this, I wanted to say that I would totally make out with you.”

Alex leans back a little. “Uh-- I think that’s a… a bad idea…”

“I’m not gonna _do_ it. But I would. If circumstances were - not this.”

Alex tilts his head and holds his hand out for the bottle again. “Hmm. Yeah, maybe.”

“Wow, don’t sound so fucking thrilled about it, jeez.”

Alex grins. “Didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable, man. Okay, fine, I would. You’re like a ten, dude.”

John smiles, less self-consciously than before. “A ten - but an idiot, right?”

Alex grins, “A himbo!”

“Fuck. Yeah, why not?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Okay, chill. I don’t wanna give you a complex. You’re plenty smart.”

“But not--” _Not smart enough._

He’s shaken from his negative self-talk when Alex reaches out to grab the bottle and raises it to his lips without taking it from John’s hand. 

John stares at him intently. “Did you ever do something with one of the kids you were placed with?”

Alex considers for a minute. “I was in a home with a dozen other boys when I was about fourteen. I kind of liked one of them, and we kissed one time. But normally the other kids are quite a bit younger than me, so…”

“Yeah.” They hold the bottle between them, and John shifts it toward his mouth. He catches Alex’s eyes on him for a second. “You’re… You’re actually a pretty good person, you know that?”

Alex looks at him again and raises an eyebrow. “Uh - thanks?”

“You are! You’re the first person I ever felt comfortable telling about the - you know - and you didn’t even give me any shit about it.”

“John, you’ve told me a lot tonight. I’m not sure I know which bit you mean.”

“Oh, yeah. I was talking about me being…” This time the word doesn’t want to come out. “Uh, into guys. Like, even the other day when we were talking and you were just - fine with it. Plus you don’t make a big deal out of silly stuff like weird crushes or ignorant questions or whatever. It’s refreshing.”

Alex grins. “Thanks. You’re pretty cool too. Did none of the guys you’ve kissed and felt up want to talk about it?”

“Oh.” He must have given Alex the wrong impression somewhere along the way. Great. Now he’s going to look even more pathetic. “I haven’t… Not with any guys.”

“Oh- I… I assumed...” Alex’s mouth opens and closes a little. He rubs the back of his neck like _he’s_ the one who’s embarrassed by this. “Shit, wait- you’ve really never even kissed a guy?”

John shakes his head, flushing. “Only in my dreams.”

Alex pulls the bottle towards his mouth, John’s hands still around it. He sighs. “You should get on that. Otherwise you’ve wasted the chance to be a teenager and make out with people you _actually_ like.”

“Oh yeah, good idea, why didn’t I think of that?” John rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s either in the closet or so deep in denial…”

“You’re definitely not the only gay guy in Charleston.”

“May as well be. Nobody’s willing to risk it until they go away to college.”

Alex shrugs and wets his lips unconsciously. “Well, that’s not such a long time,” he says, trying to inject a note of encouragement.

Eighteen months. It may as well be a lifetime. John pulls the bottle towards him. “You don’t have to pity me, fuck.”

Alex rolls his eyes as John drinks. “I don’t-- Well, okay, maybe a little.”

John snorts. “Knew it.”

Alex leans his head back against the wall. “I just feel bad that your brain resorts to weird, slightly creepy sex dreams because you can’t get it in real life.”

“Oh, wow, _thanks_ for that.” He stares at the hollow of Alex’s exposed throat, mouth going dry. “Unless that’s a problem you can solve for me, you can stop judging.”

Alex winks. “I can try and set you up with someone.”

John starts. “What? Who?”

“Well, if you pay attention, you can kind of tell who at school might… you know, swing our way.”

John can’t quite believe it. “Yeah, okay, I mean if you’re being serious?”

Alex shrugs. “I wasn’t, really, but I totally could.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay, whatever. It’s fine.”

Alex pouts and pulls the bottle towards him again. “You’re being all _moody_ now.”

“Oh, fuck off,” John retorts, proving the point. “I’m just drunk and horny and tired, it’s not my fault.”

Alex grins. “Oh, go jerk off and drink some water and you’ll be fine.”

“That was the plan,” John grumbles. “We should probably…” He looks at the level of the vodka. It’s almost finished.

Alex runs a finger around the rim of the bottle absently. John follows it with his eyes. “Probably what?”

“Destroy the rest of the evidence?” 

“Who gets it, then?”

“I have four siblings, I know how to share.” John takes a big gulp and surrenders the rest.

Alex takes the bottle and tips it back, swallows the last mouthful and scrunches up his face. “Argh. Why can’t it taste good?”

John laughs. He stands, then sways dramatically and has to brace himself on the table, one hand landing dangerously close to Alex’s knee. “Oh fuck. I’m… drunk.”

“No shit! Okay, you should, like - lie down.” Alex throws out a hand to grab him under his arm, and the touch is electric again - but this time it’s more of a warm tingle than a shock. John hums as Alex gets unsteadily to his feet, stumbling against him and clutching John just as much for his own support as to help him.

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Then John remembers something critical from earlier in the evening, something he promised himself he’d say before they parted ways for the night. He turns a little so that they’re standing face to face, and puts both hands on Alex’s shoulders to brace himself. Before he can think this through, he leans forward and presses his forehead against Alex’s. 

“I just wanted to say…” he murmurs, trying to catch Alex’s eye, even though his vision is blurry and they’re too close.

Alex squeezes John’s side gently. “Yeah?”

“It wasn’t your fault. Your mom. That shit just happened, okay?”

“Oh.” Alex blinks, surprised and instantly sombre. He swallows and nods, and his nose nudges John’s. “Yeah. I-- I know. Thanks, John.”

“Just thought someone should say it.”

Alex gives him a watery smile. “Yeah. And… you’re a good person. Liking guys, sometimes snapping at Harry, arguing with your mom when you were a kid. It doesn’t change that.”

“I’m really trying. Thanks, Alex. I’m… really glad you’re here.”

Alex’s lips are just inches away. John’s nose is full of Alex’s scent again.

“I kinda lucked out to get a foster brother like you, so… yeah.”

John huffs. “You’re gonna have to deal with my overprotective hovering from now on, you know that?”

Alex laughs, and the exhale of breath makes the curls hanging loose around John’s face flutter a little. “Can’t wait. It’ll be a nice change, honestly.” His voice is low, rough. His eyes flash with challenge. 

“Hmm.” John closes his own eyes, smiles, and just stands there - savouring the hot press of Alex’s forehead against his and the warm curve of Alex’s shoulders under his palms. He’s never been this close to another boy before. If he wasn’t flushed with alcohol, he’d probably be hard. But he’s made up his mind to draw this line. “I’m not gonna kiss you.”

Alex sighs. “Were you considering it?”

John opens his eyes again. “Only for a moment.”

Alex bites his lip and doesn’t move away. His voice drops lower. “Kind of a… dangerous thought.”

“Yeah. Sorry. You got me drunk and everything,” John teases.

Alex is grinning. “Fuck, you make me sound like I _do_ drink the blood of virgins or something. You being the virgin.”

“Now that might be a little too kinky for, uh, a first time.” John smiles. He doesn’t move away either. 

“Agreed. Are you like… into kinky stuff?”

John lets out a laugh. “Ask me again after I’ve _actually_ kissed a boy.”

Alex hesitates. His eyes flit down from John’s, just for a split second, but John sees it. His heart starts to pound. “I guess,” Alex says. “Too bad. The whole questions thing will be a lot more fun once you’ve actually done some stuff.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll tell you all the gory details.” But of course his mind can’t picture other boys right now - only Alex, splayed out on the bed, hot and intense and falling apart underneath him. John narrows his eyes.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Hm? What’s the face for?”

John looks down for a moment, then back up. Alex’s eyes are dark and glittering. “Oh, just another - dangerous thought.”

Alex smiles. “Yeah? No secrets anymore, remember?”

“I never said _no_ secrets. Some things I’m still gonna keep to myself.”

Alex’s mouth drops open, offended. “No! This one you have to tell! I think it’s about me, so - you gotta!”

John twists his lips to one side. “Okay, fair enough. I was only thinking that…” Can he really admit this? Will Alex be revolted? “I might not _have_ to tell you all the, uh, details.”

But Alex’s lips twist into a smile. The hand that’s on his side slides a little further around to his back. 

“Ah. I see. _If._ ” He puts a lot of weight into that little word.

“Big if.”

“Yeah. Pretty colossal.”

“We’d get into so much trouble.”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek. “ _If_ anyone found out, yeah. I’d be kicked out.”

John frowns. “Then it wouldn’t be worth the risk.” 

He can get off with some other guy, but he’s not likely to find someone else like Alex, who he can open up to and confide in. That part feels much more rare and precious. But he still doesn’t step away. Every part of his body is buzzing with tension.

“No,” Alex breathes. “Probably not.”

“So, I’m not gonna kiss you. Don’t want that on my conscience.” 

Alex hesitates for a long moment and takes a miniscule step forward. His arm is still warmly pressed against John, and his fingertips dig a little harder into his back. 

“Alex?”

Alex purses his lips. “Now _I’m_ the one having the dangerous thoughts.”

“You shouldn’t. Act on them, I mean. You can _have_ them, though.”

Alex nods. “Yeah. I don’t really wanna… let go of those.”

“Fuck.” Just the suggestion that Alex is thinking of him in the same way... John squeezes his eyes shut. He inches backwards half a step. “I don’t want to regret my first _real_ kiss.”

But Alex holds him tighter and follows him, keeping their foreheads together. “I know, I know. Just... stay for a second.”

Now, that’s something he _can_ do.

“I’m here,” John murmurs. “I’m gonna be here, from now on. Okay? No matter what.”

Alex nods fervently. “Me too. Promise?”

“Promise. Come here.” John shifts his arms around Alex’s shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug. His heart is hammering. Alex presses his face into his shoulder and inhales deeply. John tries not to let himself become even more turned on than he is already.

“Thanks,” Alex says, muffled into John’s shirt.

“Don’t mention it.” John sighs deeply. This is what he can be for Alex - strong, stable, protective. He doesn’t need to muddy the water with this weird sexual tension, and Alex seems like he needs someone to look after him more than he needs another dick to suck. Nice as that would be.

Suddenly, John tenses up, but it has nothing to do with the pleasant way that Alex has nuzzled his cheek along the side of his neck. His stomach makes an alarming gurgling sound.

“Uh… Shit. I think I need to…” 

Alex pulls back, his expression caught half-way between laughter and something darker. 

John claps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with alarm. 

“Shit, go - bathroom! Quick!”

John makes it, but only barely, and he slumps on the floor as he grips the toilet seat and his stomach heaves. Alex hovers in the doorway, looking mildly concerned, but John waves him away. He can handle being sick without an audience. 

He spends a good twenty minutes there, mostly because he wants to make sure all of it is out of his system before he climbs into bed. When he finally changes into pyjamas and lies down, the world is spinning, but his mind is full of Alex, Alex, Alex. 

A big part of him regrets his restraint; he had a perfect opportunity to fool around - masked under drunkenness and the certainty that Alex would keep is a secret. But a deeper part of him knows he made the right choice.

Alex may be tough, and smart, and experienced - but there’s a fragility underneath all of it that he let John glimpse tonight. It sparks his protective instinct. And he can’t very well play the role of big brother when he’s got his tongue down Alex’s throat.

But… like he said earlier, _thoughts_ are okay. 

And, well, all the drinking and the sex-talk and the touching has fired him up in a way that even the nausea can’t dampen. He grabs a few tissues from his nightstand and slips his hand down inside his pants, and as he strokes himself, his mind is full of Alex, Alex, Alex.

The thought that Alex might be doing the exact same thing two doors down flushes him with arousal and shame. The wrongness just makes it hotter. It takes him no time at all to finish himself off.

Fuck, John thinks as he wipes his hand clean and throws the tissues away. He better not be developing a crush. How embarrassing would _that_ be?


	7. Chapter 7

Alex is sprawled across the bed in his room, his whole torso draped over the edge so that his head rests on the floor, his sharp, denim-clad hip bones jutting up towards the ceiling. John is perched on Alex’s desk chair, playing with one of Alex’s hair ties. The younger Laurens kids are all at Sunday school and the cleaner always comes to John’s room around this time, so he’s been temporarily kicked out. 

Alex lifts his head off the floor slightly and tilts it back in a dangerous arc, his throat bared to the ceiling.

“So, you never actually told me - _do_ people throw any good parties around here?” he asks, meeting John’s eyes with a mischievous smirk. John wonders at how he can lie like that, contorted so uncomfortably with the blood rushing to his head. He’s obnoxiously at ease, as though John isn’t sitting five feet away from him in stiff silence.

John’s not sure where to look, but it’s definitely not at the sliver of Alex’s stomach peeking out from where his shirt is riding up. Not at his clever fingers, twisting around his hair. But then again, also not at his molten eyes, for fear he might lose track of his thoughts again. 

Shit. 

Staring at the floor seems like the best choice.

John shrugs. “Uh - yeah, sometimes. There’s a party at the beach club every spring break. Boat races and stuff. It’s supposed to mark the start of the sports season.”

Alex makes a funny, choking sort of noise and John looks up, alarmed, only to see his foster brother rolling off the bed and onto the floor, clutching his ribs and doubled over with laughter.

John scowls, watching Alex roll onto his back and gaze up at him with an almost pitying look.

“Oh, of course, of course, _boating parties_ \- that sounds like a riot.” He breaks off into another peal of laughter and John crosses his arms now, a little irritated. Alex is often skeptical of family traditions and the culture he grew up in. It’s not as though John himself particularly _treasures_ these things, but his first instinct is to defend them from this derision.

“They’re not that bad,” he mutters, and Alex finally stops laughing, stilling on the floor and looking up at him with a broad grin.

“Oh, no - it’s _adorable_ , honestly. Just… you know, I meant like house parties and stuff. With booze? People our own age? Girls? _Boys?_ ”

As much as John objects to being called ‘adorable’, he can’t help but want to show off for Alex. It’s stupid. The kid’s like two years younger than him - but sometimes it’s like he’s from an entirely different planet; he talks about the world like he actually _knows_ things about it, like John is the one who’s the oblivious little kid. So he swallows the instinct to relate the somewhat underwhelming truth and shrugs mysteriously, trying to relax back into the chair.

“Uh, yeah, sometimes the college freshmen throw good parties. There’s usually beer and stuff, maybe weed.”

Alex makes an appreciative sound, sitting up against the side of his bed and brushing his unruly hair out of his face with a small huff.

“Any coming up?”

John shrugs. He’s only ever been to one, and he hadn’t enjoyed it very much. He’d spent every minute wondering whether Henry would call the parents of the friend he was supposed to be sleeping over with, and then ducked into an unoccupied bedroom and locked the door when things got a little too rowdy. 

“Uh, nah, they’re normally in September or October.”

Alex groans and glances at the window, out over the sun-soaked grounds and gleaming lake. “Man, you should see the parties kids would throw where I lived in Queens. As much beer as you want, all night.” Then he smiles cheekily and throws John a glance. “Might need to suck someone off to get it, but--”

John cuts him off hastily. Alex seems to have learned how to push all his buttons already. “Right. Uh, yeah… I guess there aren’t as many parties here.”

He falls silent then, watching Alex spin a quarter in wobbling circles on the hardwood floor, tongue held between his teeth in concentration.

“Maybe we should get some weed ourselves,” Alex suggests casually, flicking the coin John’s way. “It wouldn’t exactly be a party, but we could smoke it down by the lake. Could be fun. Man, it’s been ages since I got high.”

John hesitates. “Uh, I dunno. Dad would blow a fuse.”

Alex shrugs. “Just tell him we’re sleeping at a friends house or something. Or we could do it on a night he’s away. Easy.”He sits up and begins to roam the room, running his fingers along the window sill and squinting out over the grounds, out past the trees to where slivers of the lake shimmer in the sunshine. 

“Do any of your friends at school smoke?” Alex asks, and John doesn’t miss the slightly amused note of derision in his foster brother’s tone. Alex doesn’t much like the kids at their school. John thinks, irritated again, that it might help if he didn’t call them all spoilt assholes. Certainly not where they can hear him, at least.

John shakes his head. “Uh- not really. Not often.” Not with _him,_ anyway.

Alex rolls his eyes and turns around to face him, backlit against the bright rectangle of the window. “Well, you can still get us some, right?”

John scowls, watching Alex with narrowed eyes. Where is he supposed to get weed? Does he think John can just snap his fingers and have a maid bring it to him?

“I don’t follow.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Buy it, duh. I’d do it, but you’re older, and you know people here. Anyway, do I look like I have the money for it?”

John hesitates, considering. If anyone caught him buying actual illegal drugs and told Henry, well... He winces at the mere thought. He can’t think of any punishment in recent memory that would compare.

But Alex is right, surely? How likely is Henry to suspect them of getting high down by the lake when John has never shown even an ounce of that sort of daring? He’s away so often anyway, it won’t be hard to find a night when he’s in D.C. or Columbia. 

Beside, this is _Alex_ asking, and for some reason that fact alone makes it hard for him to say no.

John swallows and tries a blithe shrug, though he’s sure Alex’s eagle eyes pick up all the discomfort anyway. “I guess. I’ll find someone.”

Alex’s eyes actually widen in delight and he springs forward, clapping John on the shoulder. “Perfect! Damn, you’re all right, you know? You’d fit right in in New York.”

John can’t help but grin at this, even though the small, honest voice in the back of his head knows this isn’t remotely true. At least, not with the crowd Alex talks about. Still, he can’t help but feel the spot on his shoulder where Alex touched grow warm. He nods along to his foster brother’s eager planning, and, as he sits watching the other boy pace up and down the room, gesturing excitedly, he can’t bring himself to regret this commitment. 

\-----

Alex is lounging on his bed on Saturday - weekends are the worst here, dull and endless - when John knocks on the door and peeks in.

“The driver’s off sick, so I’m taking Jemmy down to the stables. Thought you might wanna tag along?”

Alex has heard mention of various people going to ‘the stables’, and he can’t deny he’s curious to see what all the fuss is about, if only so that he can privately scoff at rich people and their ridiculous hobbies - John plays fucking _polo,_ for god’s sake. 

Besides, he has been bored all morning. There are no chores to do here, since all the housework is handled by the near-invisible staff. He’s written all his essays for the next two weeks. Finished up the hefty but surprisingly readable volume of Marcus Aurelius’ _Meditations_ he found in the library. The Senator has been away in D.C., so he can’t even spend time trying to come up with ways to impress him.

And he’s finally unpacked his suitcase. 

That’s always a delicate moment for him in any foster placement. If he leaves it too long, he starts to get antsy and unsettled - but if he does it too early, it feels like he’s tempting fate. He’ll never forget his very first placement after his mom died and James had been taken away somewhere else, where he’d naively stowed his meager belongings in the dresser assigned to him - only to be told to pack it all up again less than a week later. Nowadays, he waits at least a month before he takes that step - though, even now, he leaves a change of clothes, a book, and fifty dollars in crumpled bills inside his luggage, just in case he gets kicked out on such short notice that he can’t grab anything else.

He felt more confident than normal unpacking this time. The Laurenses are not going to claim that he’s too expensive to keep - the standard euphemism for when he gets a little too headstrong or defiant - and he’s building a genuine, if glacially slow, rapport with Henry. And he feels much more at ease after the drunken antics with John, even though that night veered dangerously close to exhilarating disaster.

He still hasn’t decided how - or if - he’s going to use any of the dirt he picked up about his foster brother. None of it was particularly damning anyway, other than the fact that John’s deep in the closet, but outing him to his father feels like a last-resort sort of move.

The only _other_ thing he was hoping for was that John would have gotten hold of the weed by now, but it’s taken him longer than planned to figure it out. The perils of a sheltered upbringing. At least that one will give him a little bit of mid-range leverage, if he ever needs to get John in trouble - or deflect trouble from himself.

So Alex shrugs. “Don’t have anything better to do.”

“Okay, cool. I have a spare pair of boots for you.”

Alex frowns. “I’ll just wear sneakers.”

John laughs. “Terrible idea. You’ll never get the mud out of them. It’s my old pair, so it should fit you.”

Alex grumbles but he trails after John to his room. John’s already wearing his knee-length boots over his jeans - and, well, Alex has a very specific aesthetic sensibility that this look definitely appeals to. He tries not to stare too obviously; he wasn’t kidding when he said John was a ten.

John passes him a similar pair, smaller and slightly more worn. The leather is rich and supple, and the fit is good, but when Alex tries to take a step it feels like he’s wearing big wooden blocks on his feet. John smiles sympathetically.

“You’ll get used to it. Come on, we need to go.”

They head downstairs, where Jemmy is bouncing impatiently in the hall. John grabs a set of car keys off the wall - Alex can’t imagine owning _one_ car, never mind so many that you need a hanger to keep the keys organised - and leads them to the Range Rover. Jemmy monopolises the entire ride with a breathless monologue about all the horseriding stuff he’s been doing. It goes entirely over Alex’s head, but John responds enthusiastically.

When they pull up, Jemmy bursts out of the car and sprints over to meet his friends. John gets out more sedately.

“The class takes about an hour, so there’s no point in driving home. Let me show you around and introduce you.”

Alex follows warily. He’s used to big cities. The rural outdoors are a different beast entirely.

The stables are actually a clump of neat buildings that are a little too clean and freshly painted to look entirely authentic. There’s a big low barn, a club house and a few other scattered buildings - probably store rooms or offices - and some arenas where various groups of people are riding around. The walkways are neatly wood-chipped and there are perfectly manicured lawns everywhere. It all smells like earth and grass and animals.

John waves happily to a few people as they pass and leads Alex into the cooler, dusty interior of the barn. Alex has never really been around horses, and these ones are massive and a bit too intimidating for his liking, sticking their big heads over the tops of the stable doors as they pass.

John doesn’t seem afraid of them, though. In fact, an unusual sort of calmness and confidence seems to take over his body as he strides down the aisle between the rows of stalls, murmuring greetings to the horses that look out at them curiously.

He stops in front of one of the stalls and leans his crossed arms on the half-open door, smiling and clicking his tongue. Alex approaches cautiously, just in time to get a fright when a big black horse steps over and shoves its snout into John’s face.

John laughs at it and shoves it away, then reaches up to stroke its long face.

“Come here, Alex. Meet Monarch.”

“When you said introduce,” Alex quips, not stepping any closer, “I thought you meant to the people.”

John laughs again - the smile just can’t seem to melt off his face. “People are dumb. Horses… well, they’re dumb too, but at least they don’t judge you.” He looks over, just as the horse noses at the side of his head. “Come on, I promise he won’t hurt you. Here, stick out your hand like this.” 

John holds his palm out flat. Alex mimics the gesture, and John takes hold of his hand and pulls him closer, holding it out for the horse to sniff. He feels the warm, surprisingly soft snout nuzzle him, then the horse opens its mouth like it wants to bite him and he jerks away. 

John scoffs. “Are you really afraid of him? You’re at least ten times as smart as he is.”

“Yeah, but he’s a hundred times as big as me.”

John shrugs and pets the horse again, which has now taken to nibbling on a stray curl that has come loose from his hair tie.

And well, shit - Alex has never seen John so at ease before. All of his stiffness seems to have melted away, and his guard is down - but it’s replaced with such an easy confidence that Alex keeps catching himself staring. 

An older lady - dressed in what Alex has figured out is some sort of standard horse-person uniform of boots and beige tights and a collared shirt - calls out a greeting and strolls over. 

“Season hasn’t started yet, Jack. You just visiting?”

“Ah, yeah,” John smiles. “Dropped Jemmy off and wanted to show Alex around, hope that’s fine.”

“Of course, you know you’re always welcome. Friend of yours?” she asks, with an incredibly obvious knowing smile that sails right over John’s head.

“Actually, Alex is staying with us.”

This seems to be rich-people code for fostering; Alex has heard this turn of phrase a few times already. She nods, looking just a little disappointed. “Well, Monarch has been cooped up all day - haven’t had the chance to take him out. You want to give him some exercise?”

John beams. “If that’s okay?”

“You’d be doing me a favour. You know how he tears up the place when he’s full of beans.”

“Alex, do you mind?”

“Go wild,” he says with a dismissive wave.

John vanishes for a moment and returns carrying a saddle and bridle and a bucket of horse brushes. Alex watches from behind the safety of the stall door as John slips inside, brushes the horse down quickly, and then puts the saddle and bridle on. He chats away as he works, half to Alex and half to the horse, and Alex gets the impression - like he’s seen with some people and their dogs - that this horse actually knows John. And John certainly seems to treat it like a friend. He wonders suddenly how many of his secrets John has whispered into its ear.

Alex trails along behind them as John leads the horse outside and buckles on a helmet. 

“Give him a bit of space,” John says, as he prepares to climb on. “He tends to get a little excited.”

Excited seems like an understatement. As soon as John puts his foot in the stirrup and pulls himself up, the horse tosses its head and veers alarmingly to one side. But John sits easily in the saddle, laughing wryly and tightening the reins, and a moment later it stops its prancing.

“You just need to remind him who’s boss.”

And - wow. Alex smiles to himself as he drinks in the sight of John up on the pretty black horse, his back straight, his thighs tight around the saddle, his face still overtaken by that genuine smile. Alex has always found confidence sexy, and John wears it incredibly well. Thank god he isn’t like this at home, Alex thinks selfishly, because there’s no way Alex would be able to keep his hands off him.

John walks the horse over to one of the unoccupied arenas and starts to put it through its paces. Alex finds a spot in the shade to watch. The horse seems a little skittish at first, jumping around and turning of its own accord, but every time it misbehaves John patiently brings it back to what it’s supposed to be doing. After about ten minutes, the horse becomes entirely obedient. 

Alex doesn’t know the first thing about horseriding, but even he gets the impression that John is showing off a little for him, nudging the horse this way and that, speeding up and stopping and turning on a dime - probably the sorts of things that come in handy during a polo game. There are a few jumps set up too, and John steers the horse at them and sails over effortlessly. 

Watching this would be boring if Alex wasn’t so fascinated by this entirely different - better - version of his foster brother. Or, if he’s really honest, enraptured by the very distracting sight of John’s long legs and strong, flexed thighs - and the thought of what they would feel like wrapped around him instead. 


	8. Chapter 8

"Your dad is such a fucking asshole!"

John has hardly registered the exclamation before Alex storms in, slams the door, throws himself down heavily into the desk chair and pulls his knees up to his chin. Alex's expression is thunderous and, when his eyes meet John's, they’re lost and hurt and _furious._

"What happened?" John drops his sketchpad, sitting up properly from where he’s been slouching on his bed to give his foster brother his full attention. 

Alex's voice is trembling. "He-- He won't give me my brother's contact info. I-- Fuck, it's supposed to be available to me on request! But he won't--" Alex breaks off, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. John watches his shoulders rise and fall with heaving breaths, his restless hands clutching at loose strands of dark hair.

John’s instinct is to reach out a comforting hand, but Alex has never looked this volatile before, and he’s not sure if it would be welcomed.

"Dad won't give you it? Why not?"

Alex scowls. "No fucking clue. He said something stupid about James requesting anonymity. Made up bullshit excuse."

John watches Alex in bewildered silence for a moment, unsure what to do. He can't understand why his father might want to keep this information away from Alex, but he has to admit it doesn't sound that out of character. 

Alex curls up even more into himself, his arms wrapped around his knees, glaring at the floor. "Fuck, I'll go into his office when he's not around. I don't care if he won't give it to me. It's not his to hold back!"

John looks up sharply, meets Alex's fiery gaze and knows instantly that he isn't bluffing. "You can't do that!" he exclaims quietly, leaning forwards with sudden urgency. "There’s confidential stuff in there, like government files and stuff. He'll lose his shit. He’ll kick you out! Alex, whatever you do..."

Alex gets to his feet and begins to pace, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, his eyebrows furrowed as he speaks. "If Congress goes back into session on Monday, he'll be away in D.C. for at least a few days, it shouldn't be--"

“No.” John reaches out a hand. "Alex, come on, think of some other way. You're being--"

“Don’t you _dare_ say irrational!” Alex scoffs and brushes him off. “Once I have it, I don’t care how mad he’ll be, it’s my fucking right to--”

“Alex!” John gets to his feet, the memory of Henry’s more serious rages ringing loudly in his ears. And Alex wants to speed directly into a conflict of that scale, unwilling to consider any options but the nuclear one. 

Alex glares. “I suppose you’re going to tell me to be a good boy and ask nicely? God, you can be such a fucking pushover sometimes.”

John grits his teeth. He knows Alex is not angry at _him,_ so he needs to keep his cool and not let himself get provoked. “No, listen to me - you can’t just barge in there and rifle through your file. It’s gotta be backed up somewhere, or written in an email. You need to, well - to hack it.”

Alex pauses, his hands stilling in the middle of a frantic gesture. “How the fuck would I do that?”

And John knows this is a reckless idea, just like asking around about weed at school, just like getting drunk with Henry one floor away, just like spilling his most dangerous secrets to Alex. But he’s never seen Alex upset, desperate or angry enough that he can’t even hide it anymore. John can’t let his foster brother invoke Henry's wrath - not when John can’t somehow take the brunt of it - but he also can’t stand back and hold up his hands when Alex is so distressed.

He bites his lip. “I could do it.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “Since when could _you_ hack into a computer?”

John shrugs, folding his arms defensively. “Well, it’s not like I went out of my way to learn. It’s just not very difficult once you learn the basics of cybersecurity.”

Alex is grinning now, looking - John can barely believe it - a little impressed.

“Are you sure?” he asks, tilting his head. “Surely Saint John would never put those skills to such _nefarious_ purposes.”

John rolls his eyes, moving over to his desk and pushing Alex out of his chair. The scathing nickname cuts him in an odd way - there’s nothing about himself that he’s ever considered to be especially _good,_ except for his ability to fall immediately into line and bite his tongue at one look from his father. But that's not exactly something he wants to be praised for.

His laptop sits waiting for him. John needs to do some recon before he attempts this.

“It’s bullshit, that he won’t give you your brother’s details. Just let me do my thing, okay? I might need to take my time with it.”

Alex hops up onto the side of the desk, unperturbed at John unseating him, and nods seriously. “Thanks, man. That’s, uh, cool of you.”

John shrugs, and a slightly awkward quiet descends between them for a moment. John enters his password and drums his fingers impatiently on the desk as the computer starts.

Alex breaks the silence, thank god. “So, what are you planning to do?”

“Couple of ways I could do it. I think anything work-related is probably encrypted, so instead of trying to get into his actual laptop remotely, I might try his email instead. Funny thing is, the US government has all this top-notch security, but the people who end up using the systems are, uh - not very tech savvy. So there’s tons of weak links.”

Alex breathes a laugh. “Listen to you, like someone out of CSI.”

John does smile at this, suspecting it’s the closest he’ll get to a compliment from Alex. He starts fiddling around with some of the metadata he can gauge from an email Henry sent him a little while ago, hoping Alex will get the picture and stop staring over his shoulder.

“Do you… need me to do anything?” Alex asks uncertainly.

John wrinkles his nose. “Not really. I won’t have it this evening. Let me work on it.”

Alex nods, fiddling awkwardly with one of John’s pens. He seems thrown at the lack of instruction, the sudden deceleration of his rapid-fire plan and furious diatribe. John turns around to grin at his foster brother.

“His name’s James right? And how much older than you is he?”

Alex nods. “Yeah, James Hamilton Junior. And, uh - four years. He’s twenty.”

Four years? But if Alex is seventeen, then wouldn’t that make James twenty-one? John would immediately dismiss this as a slip of the tongue, but Alex is not the kind of person who makes such basic mistakes. Something doesn't quite add up. However, John doesn’t feel like it’s his place to ask.

John turns back to his laptop. “That’s all I needed. I’ll do my best, okay?”

He hears Alex flop backwards onto his bed and suppresses a smile. He doubts he’ll be left alone until he has some sort of progress to report. He puts Alex out of his mind for the present, then. Getting onto his dad’s email server won’t be an easy job and Alex is enough of a distraction to keep him away from even simple tasks. Anyway, he wants to succeed at this. Show off a little. Maybe prove he isn’t completely useless.

\-----

It takes him the better part of the next three days to bypass the precautions Henry has in place around his personal laptop and email. He takes his time because he needs to make sure he won’t get caught - for one, he can only access the email when Henry is home but not working, because only one login at a time is allowed and the IP address will get logged, so the time and place of the connection has to look plausible. 

When he does finally get in, the temptation to snoop is overwhelming - but one look at his father’s inbox, an endless repertoire of incredibly dull sounding emails about legislative proposals and golf lunches, puts him right off this dangerous temptation.

He does pause for a second when he sees a receipt from a hotel in Charleston. He frowns at it. Why would his father have chosen to stay overnight in the city? Even if he had a meeting with one of the local legislators or party offices, the commute home is hardly onerous, especially since he has a driver. And the booking was made a few nights before the stay, so it’s not like it was a spur-of-the-moment decision after a late meeting. John is pretty sure his father was supposed to be in Columbia at the time anyway.

He ponders it for another moment and then shrugs. Adults are strange; he’s sure there’s some perfectly boring reason for it.

It’s fairly easy once he’s found his way into Henry's inbox to just type Alex’s name into the search bar and pull up all the emails from eight months ago, back and forths between social services and his father. Emails from some social worker gushing about how honoured and excited Alexander is to be given this opportunity, from Henry about the quality of the education and life here. John gags a little as he reads, at the sheer performativity of it all. 

It’s in one of the earliest emails detailing Alex’s family that he finds this elusive brother. He tries not to read much of the other information, but sees mention of Alex’s mother. _Rachael Faucett, unmarried, deceased._ Seeing it written this way, in such cold and clinical words, sends a stab of loss through him. Mostly for Alex, because he remembers the look on his foster brother’s face when he’d talked about her. How his mouth had twisted into a frown, his eyes narrowed against tears. He scrolls quickly away from the name. 

He copies the entire paragraph on Alex’s brother and pastes it into a notes page. Then he sets about covering his tracks and trying to ignore the way his eyes sting every time he sees Rachael Faucett’s name. 

James, it seems, moved back to St Croix as soon as he was emancipated - perhaps looking to recapture some sense of home or familiarity, or maybe simply because that’s where he was able to find work. Unable to smother all of his curiosity, John googles his work address and sees that he’s working at a car mechanic’s shop. That’s another thing that doesn’t quite add up, considering the kind of person who Alex is - unless Alex somehow siphoned off the entire family allocation of ambition and pride. Not, John corrects himself quickly, that there’s anything _wrong_ with being a mechanic in a sleepy island town. It just doesn’t seem fitting for a Hamilton.

\-----

John prints out the info and whispers to Alex to come by his room after dinner. When he hands him the slip of paper, Alex beams, and immediately whips out his phone.

Before John can protest, or give him any privacy, Alex is holding it up to his ear. John hears the distant sound of the ring, then a voice.

“Jamie? It’s me!”

The voice responds, and Alex’s expression tears itself in two - half an ecstatic smile, half tensed and tight against some upwelling of emotion.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine! Sorry it took me so long to get your number. Are you okay?”

Alex listens and nods intently, his eyes glistening. John takes a step back and sits down on his bed. He feels acutely like he’s intruding on a private moment, but it would feel wrong to just walk out - so he opts for melting into the scenery instead. Alex knows he’s here, so it’s not like he’s spying.

“I see you went back home,” Alex says. “Got somewhere to stay? Do you have enough money? I can send you--”

Alex breaks off and nods again, and John marvels that Alex would be worrying about stuff like this for his _older_ brother. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

“Okay. Okay, great. Is Ned still around?” A pause. “Pre-med? No way! I always told him he was smarter than he looked.”

Alex chats away for a bit longer, asking about various acquaintances and old haunts. Then his shoulders go a little stiffer, even though his voice remains light and breezy.

“Me? Oh, I’m great. Yeah, you’ll never believe it, but I’m in Charleston!” He chuckles. “ _South_ Carolina - trust me, you don’t wanna make that mistake.” He nods quickly and speaks, sounding like he’s interrupting. “No, no, this one’s really good, the family is rich and they’re nice and--” He cuts off, then lowers his voice and turns away a little from John. “No, I’m serious. It’s good, _nothing_ like Queens. There’s a library and a _lake_ and they’re sending me to fucking private school.” He shakes his head. “I promise, Jamie. Don’t worry about me.”

John shrinks into himself even more, flushing with embarrassment. There’s way too much to unpack in what Alex is - and isn’t - saying. He wishes he could cover his ears, if only what wouldn’t be even more humiliating.

“Yeah, call me any time,” Alex is saying. “If you need anything, you let me know, okay? And say hi to the Stevenses for me.”

John hears a pause over the line, then the voice on the other end again, and after a moment Alex’s eyes water and he brings a hand up to his mouth. “Yeah, I’d love that. Lilies. And,” his voice breaks a little, “Tell her I say hi and that I’m doing okay.”

There’s another moment of quiet, and then Alex hangs up. He tries to put a brave smile on his face but John sees the dam cracking, and in a second he’s back on his feet and pulling Alex into a big, gentle hug. Alex melts instantly and starts to sob into his shoulder, his hands holding weakly to the sides of John’s shirt. Judging by how he’s shaking, John suspects he’d crumple to the ground if he let go. 

This, at least, John knows how to handle. He doesn’t say anything, just holds tight with one arm and rubs soothing circles against Alex’s upper back with the other, quietly humming a calming little tune over and over. Alex suddenly feels so small and fragile, nothing like the brash, larger-than-life mask he wears for the world, not even like the blushing, grinning kid he got drunk with a few months ago. There’s a raw honesty in his posture that defies words.

They stay like that for a while. John figures it must have been a long time since Alex allowed himself to let out his sadness, which means there’s a lot of it banked up. But he doesn’t mind at all - not the growing ache in his arm or the damp patch soaking through his shirt, or even the soft, tender tightening in his chest.

God, if _he_ ever allowed himself to cry properly like this, the flood of repressed emotion would probably kill him. 

Good thing he’s got a handle on it.

When Alex finally cries himself out and pulls away, his face is adorably red and puffy. He gives a little awkward laugh. “Sorry. And, uh - thanks.”

“That’s what big brothers are for,” John says with a smile. The tenderness he feels in this moment is almost physically painful. He can barely resist the urge to pull Alex back to him and shelter him, to be a warm and safe place in the midst of the frenzied storm that is Alex’s life. 

“You and James,” Alex sniffs and clears his throat, “You and James would get on. He’d be glad you’re here.”

John’s eyes crinkle in a smile. “And I’m glad _you’re_ here. And that you managed to get in touch.”

Alex is wiping at the tears around his eyes, wincing at the brush of his sleeve against the sensitive skin. He suddenly looks exhausted, with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

“Well, thanks for getting that for me… Really, thank you. I owe you one.”

John can’t help himself. He pulls Alex in for another hug. It only lasts a moment, because Alex is yawning now and John knows he’s growing aware of his bedraggled state, increasing self-conscious about this unprecedented moment of vulnerability.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Alex says, and it’s a dismissal - though a kinder one than his usual blunt goodnights. 

In his room, John puts a hand to the cool, damp patch of Alex’s tears on his chest. It’s half dried already, and come morning, Alex will be obstinately ignoring the moment he put his defences down and let John see his grief. So he lies awake with the memory fresh in his head, the spot of Alex’s tears sitting directly in the centre of his chest over his heart. 

\-----

Alex closes his bedroom door and leans heavily on it. 

Fuck, the last few days have been a _disaster._ He’s been letting his emotions run fierce, untamed, out in the open for anyone to see and exploit. Thank god it’s only John who’s seen the worst of it, because John is too nice to rip into him about it - but it’s not like Alex has been able to completely hide his moodiness at breakfast or dinner. The last thing he needs is to be called ‘volatile’ or ‘unpredictable’ again, because at best that means having to go see some counsellor, and at worst...

And now - crying like a stupid little kid? Just because he finally got hold of a brother who’s more focused on surviving his own small life than trying to get in touch with him? It’s humiliating. He wishes the tethers of family didn’t bind him so tightly; it’s weakness and weight he can’t really afford to drag around. 

He stumbles over to his bed, pulling off his clothes and dropping them on the floor, and throws himself heavily down on it. He’s too tired and strung out to even put on pyjamas or brush his teeth. 

He needs better ways to manage his emotions. Alcohol would probably do the trick, but it’s difficult to smuggle in here and even Alex acknowledges that’s not a particularly healthy solution. Meditation? Yoga? Boxing? 

John would say he should just let it out and not be ashamed about his feelings. 

Alex snorts audibly at that.

No, what he needs to to get _tougher._ He can’t stop feeling shit, but there must be better ways to suppress and control it.

But right now…? 

He’s still feeling weak and raw - and he’s too tired to stop his hand when it reaches over to the drawer next to his bed, pulls out the soft green scarf, and tucks it in between his flushed cheek and the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Share your thoughts here, or come hang out on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend <3


	9. Chapter 9

John can barely breathe for laughing as Alex bursts into the house through the back door ahead of him, almost doubled over with laughter himself at a stupid joke of his own telling. They’ve just been down to the lake, scoping out a private spot for later that night when they can slip out and finally, finally smoke the weed that John has spent weeks trying to get his hands on. They dash through the house, giddy with the prospect of an evening without Henry pacing around the house like a foreboding apparition. Alex is a blur of dark hair and blue denim ahead of him, disappearing around the corner and clattering towards the stairs.

And then-- John nearly trips and goes crashing to the floor as his father steps out of the dining room and blocks his path.

He skids and stumbles, staring up at his father but not quite believing that he’s really there. But Henry’s presence becomes all too tangible a moment later, when he seizes John by the arm and jerks him to a painful, sudden halt - before John can even open his mouth to ask one of the dozen questions clamoring in his mind. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Henry hisses, his grip like iron around John’s bicep, voice pure fury. Alex’s footsteps stop abruptly. The house falls deathly silent around them.

“I-- I thought you were in Columbia,” John stutters, fear beginning to replace the stunned numbness that seeing his father initially provoked.

Henry’s mouth twists into an ugly scowl. “Evidently not. Upstairs, now. My study. I have been waiting for the two of you.” 

It’s all John can do to force his legs to move. Alex is standing on the landing, one hand gripping the wrought-iron bannister. He looks at John with narrowed, questioning eyes, as if to say - _what the fuck is going on?_

John gives him a wide-eyed look of panic in return, which he hopes conveys - _this is bad, bad, bad._

Henry puts an end to this silent communication in an instant. 

“Alexander, into my office. Now!”

And despite Alex’s obvious dislike of John’s father, his reluctance to follow orders, his disdain for the formalities and rules that govern life here, Alex schools his expression into a sombre one and hastens after John to Henry’s office. Thank goodness. If Alex had chosen this moment to challenge Henry with another of his stubborn crossed-arm pouts, well… Ten to one he’d be packing his bags.

John has been on the receiving end of his father’s wrath enough times to know when the man is in a towering rage. He’s stern and reserved even in good moods, but the coldness that takes him over when he’s this angry inspires an entirely different brand of fear. 

He often wishes his father would _actually_ lose control in his anger, that the razor-sharp words and sneering insults were products of an emotional, fevered outburst. But they never are. Henry’s rage is precise, his words as meticulous as a surgeon’s scalpel in cutting straight to the parts of John that will ache the most. John can't even tell himself that his father doesn’t mean what he’s saying, that the cruel taunts and admonishments come from momentary anger rather than any real conviction - Henry doesn’t retract these remarks afterwards, Henry doesn’t misspeak, Henry doesn’t _apologise_. 

Except that one time, when even Henry couldn’t rein in his grief.

His father stalks in after them, closes the door quietly, then walks over to stand behind the massive desk, his hands braced on the smooth, dark surface. John knows what those white knuckles mean, the tight hunch of his shoulders. Alex looks both perplexed and apprehensive, standing a feet away from both of them, a little behind John, shifting anxiously. His eyes dart from Henry to John to the door, like a stray cat that’s been cornered.

“I have been disappointed by you before, John.” _John?_ Well, fuck. He’s only _John_ when shit has truly hit the fan. When he finds the nerve to look up, his father’s eyes are black ice. “In fact, I have learnt to _expect_ disappointment. But I had thought that you were old enough now to be left without constant supervision.”

Henry slams his hand on the table, and the sudden sound echoes in the silence that follows. 

John’s hands are shaking. He clenches them around the ends of his sleeves and forces down the rising tide of panic in his throat, the childish instinct to protest, to cry, to run.

There are only two things that could have made Henry _this_ angry - John snooping in his email, or the weed. Either one is disastrous, but the hacking links directly back to Alex, and John doesn’t even want to imagine the consequences for his foster brother going so wilfully against Henry’s wishes.

“I was wrong,” Henry says, quietly, dangerously. “You’ve proven to me that you are too immature - too stupid - to be trusted.” 

Henry moves away from his desk, walking out from behind it to stand directly in front of John. Closer, he’s even more frightening - every hard, livid line of his face is more pronounced; that rising tide of rage simmering just under the surface is even more visible.

“What part of the lessons that I have tried to teach you did you not understand? Where on earth did you get marijuana, John?” Henry watches him for a moment, and when John can’t make his voice work, he growls, sharper, “Answer me!”

John clenches his jaw. Thank goodness it’s just this. “I bought it.”

Henry scoffs. “And then you hid it under your bed. Did you think it wouldn’t be found? What a pathetic, careless plan, John. If you are going to do something _this_ brazenly stupid, you should at least try to make sure I will not find out about it.”

John opens his mouth; he knows he should apologise, admit to his deceit, accept whatever punishment his father decides to impose, but Henry cuts him off. He jabs a vicious finger at John’s chest, his face twisted, those dark eyes still so cold. 

“I expect more from you, John,” Henry hisses. “I did not raise a son to defy me, to pay more attention to reckless, juvenile nonsense than to his studies! Does this explain your grades? Your constant failure to live up to any of the standards I set for you? How do you think this reflects on _me,_ boy?”

Henry’s low, menacing rumble has raised to a yell now, and John shrinks back, unable to stop his posture from curling inwards. He presses a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to suppress the violent urge to gasp for air.

“I’m sorry, I won’t--”

Henry grabs him hard by the chin, pulling John’s face up to meet his eyes. His fingers dig into John’s jaw and this cuts him off instantly, his apology turning to a faint yelp that's more fear than pain.

“Look at me when you speak! I don’t want a meagre attempt at an apology, I want a son who does not force me to _constantly_ lower the bar of my expectations!”

John forces himself to look into his father’s eyes, the piercing black gaze that hurts more than the bruising grip on his jaw. The only thing he can do is endure this.

“Sir?”

The last thing he expects is to hear Alex’s voice from across the room. In fact, he’s forgotten his foster brother is here at all. Alex has never seen Henry in a rage like this, so John should be doing a better job of holding it together for his sake, to make sure he stays the focus of his father’s tirade. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible for _anyone,_ even Alex, to see Henry this angry and dare to speak up. 

“Sir, I-- I bought it. It wasn’t John.”

Alex has never called Henry ‘sir’ before. It’s always been the insolent, impersonal ‘you’, a term of address that makes John anxious every time he hears it.

Henry turns to look at Alex, and suddenly the hand releases John’s face and, at least for a moment, that awful glare shifts away. It should be a relief, but the sudden flood of panic John feels for Alex is much worse. After all, Henry can yell at John and ground him and break him down into small pieces, but he will recover from that like he has a hundred times before. Alex risks being kicked out for good.

“You did?” Henry asks, cold and low again.

Alex nods, looking scared but determined, and John marvels at his ability to stand there and look Henry dead in the eye without trembling.

“He didn’t know I got it until after. I asked him to keep it in his room.”

Henry doesn’t miss a beat. “Why?”

Alex shrugs. His expression doesn’t crack; he lies without even blinking. “John’s room had just been cleaned, mine hadn’t yet. I thought no one would look for it in his.”

Henry turns to John, who has to quickly wipe the look of pure bewilderment and horror off his face. 

“John, is this true?”

Behind Henry, Alex is nodding furiously, a bright, determined look gleaming in his eyes. John’s mind isn’t working fast enough to keep up with Alex’s plan, but if Alex is so sure, he must have some sort of strategy all figured out. And - well, John hates himself for it, and he regrets it almost instantly after the words have left his mouth, but he nods.

“Uh. Yeah.”

Henry frowns, then flicks his head dismissively towards the door.

“Go to your room. I’ll talk to you about this later.”

John opens his mouth, glancing at Alex fearfully. “But--”

“Now!” Henry orders, and his voice is very near a shout again. John sucks in a deep breath, takes one last terrified look at Alex, and turns to leave the room.

_I’m such a fucking coward._

_ _ _

John waits until he hears Alex’s door shut before getting quickly to his feet and hurrying down the hall to his foster brother’s bedroom. He knocks quietly, nerves buzzing through him - isn’t Alex going to be furious with him? For hiding the weed in such an obvious spot, and for letting him take the blame so easily?

He hears Alex say something that sounds like a ‘yeah?’ so he takes this as permission to enter. He steps cautiously into the room. His foster brother is sitting on his bed cross-legged, his face a little flushed.

“Was he…” John approaches nervously. “Was he really angry?”

He shouldn’t even need to ask. Jemmy had heard the yelling all the way from his room and had come running to John for comfort. He couldn’t make out words, but the tone had been enough, a sheer incessant tirade that hadn’t let up for what felt like hours.

But Alex just shrugs. 

“Yeah, but I can take it. And he was really laying into you.” There’s an odd look in his eyes, bright and unreadable. It could be some manic brand of fear, John supposes, but whatever it is, he’s never seen it there before.

John shakes his head slowly, walking over and sitting down beside Alex, close enough to reach out a hand if he needs to. “You shouldn’t have taken the blame for me. I didn’t deserve it.”

Alex shrugs again and turns to look properly at John, his gaze searching. “I owed you one, for James. And anyway, I didn’t like the way he was talking to you.” He says it steadily, tilting his head a little.

John laughs hollowly. “I’m not a huge fan myself.”

Alex’s look turns quizzical, then he shakes his head. “Why do you put up with it?”

“You _have_ met my dad, right? What’s the alternative?”

Alex sighs. “I guess. Well, he’s not _my_ father and he has my case worker to answer to if he’s really horrible to me, so... I can handle it. So - are we even?”

“Yeah, more than.” John raises a slightly awkward hand and places it on his foster brother’s shoulder. Alex twitches slightly at the touch, but a moment later he leans into it and turns to give John a small, genuine smile.

“If only he’d found out _after_ we’d smoked it. Then it would’ve been worth it.”

John laughs quietly. “If we’d smoked all the evidence, he wouldn’t even have found out.”

Alex huffs, picking up a heavily bookmarked school textbook from his bedside table and flipping absently to a page that’s so covered in annotations that John can barely see the printed text.

“Well, I guess it’s a shame but - hey, a good story to tell those stiff-upper-lip kids at school.”

John smirks. “What? That my little brother took the fall for me and I ran away and let him, like an asshole?” 

Alex blinks. “Little brother?” 

John winces. He was hoping Alex wouldn’t notice that. “Oh-- Uh, I dunno. Sort of just slipped out. I’m just saying, it was shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

Alex still looks a little unnerved, and John can’t quite read whether he’s been upset or not by this designation. But it would be a lot easier to deal with his muddled feelings about Alex if he can keep reminding both of them where they stand. 

Alex rolls his eyes as his more familiar sarcasm and derision win out over confronting the uncomfortable slip. “Please don’t make this into a whole thing. I chose to do it, and I owed you a favour, so you don’t need to feel bad for something I was perfectly willing to do.”

There’s a brief pause while John considers pushing the point further. He feels so extraordinary guilty, and he just wants Alex to forgive him so they can move on from this on even footing. But he knows that look of steely determination in his foster brother’s eyes and that he won’t be able to push Alex even an inch. 

“Fine. Well, I guess you’re grounded now?”

Alex snorts. “Yeah. Actually it’s a sort of fun novelty. Never been grounded before.”

John laughs, relieved they’re back to joking again. Some of the tremor has gone from his hands, and even though he knows he won’t sleep well after Henry’s diatribe tonight, it’s some comfort to at least be on normal terms with Alex.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll absolutely love it.”

Alex leans back on his bed and traces patterns into his duvet. “Being confined to this place isn’t exactly limiting is it? When you’ve got like fifty acres all around you. Hardly a seven hundred square foot apartment.”

John goes over to the window. The edge of the lake, where they might now be getting high and discussing every ridiculous thought under the sun if it weren’t for a change in Henry’s schedule, is obscured by the deep shadow of the oak trees. 

“I should go and start some homework,” John sighs after a minute. “I think dad will send someone to make sure we’re both working, not planning some defiant act of rebellion or whatever.”

Alex snorts. “Sure. Well, if you have any good ideas about said rebellion, tap them in morse code against your wall, okay?”

John gives him a half-hearted salute as he pushes open the bedroom door. That odd look is back in Alex’s eyes, though he only catches it in the final seconds before he’s closed the door, when Alex must think he’s no longer being watched. 

John stands in the darkness of the hallway for a few moments, thinking. 

He’d assumed Alex taking the blame was to make up for John’s help earlier, or even a courageous if slightly out-of-character act to spare him from Henry's wrath. He now wonders whether there might have been more to it.

He’s probably being paranoid. What reason does he have to believe anything contrary to his first assumption? A strange look? After what Alex has just endured?

He almost immediately feels guilty for wondering whether there might have been something disingenuous behind Alex’s actions. Even though he knows his foster brother is holding out on him, concealing things, it hasn’t bothered him to a great extent. It’s just who Alex is, and who all foster kids are to some degree. And it isn’t as though Alex _hasn’t_ been vulnerable with him, John reflects, thinking back to the night they’d gotten drunk.

Tonight, though, he doesn’t think the leftover adrenaline from Henry’s rage will be the only thing keeping him awake. 

\-----

As soon as John has closed the door again, Alex bites his lip and drops the morose expression. His fingers are trembling, but it’s not from fear.

Fuck! He has never felt this _electrified._

He can’t sit still, so he gets up and paces.

Yes, Henry enraged was a sight to behold, and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to drop his gaze to his shoes when he was finally in the firing line. But the anger was nothing next to the _power_ beneath it, streaming off him in tangible waves. Henry wielded his fury like a scalpel, not the blunt cudgel he’s faced from previous foster parents. Despite his snarky comment to John, he’s not surprised the other kids don’t stand up to him - and though he would never admit it out loud, he’s just a little impressed that John took it as stoically as he did. Every word, every gesture, every time Henry raised or lowered his volume - it was all perfectly calculated for maximum harm.

To have so much emotion, and to control it like that...

It was intoxicating. Thrilling. Even now his heart picks up speed just thinking about it.

 _Fuck… that’s what I want,_ Alex thinks. The steel core, the unbending will, the secret tools to hone his brilliance into a precise weapon. He has been trying to build a gradual rapport with the Senator - but screw that careful strategy. He needs more. He needs to get closer - close enough to drown in that aura of power, close enough that it smears into his skin.

_I need that. I want it._

_I want_ him _._


	10. Chapter 10

Despite his resolution to ramp up his relationship with Henry, the summer proves to be incredibly busy. The kids get sent to camp - even Martha, who is shipped off even after she threatens, during one particularly dramatic family breakfast, to break her arm if she is forced to go. 

John has been out working an internship at the most centrist organisation Henry could stick him in, some vaguely cultural NGO aimed at ‘restoring Charleston’s historic neighbourhoods’ that Alex is pretty certain is just a front for gentrification projects. Whatever it is, John absolutely hates every minute of it, and when he isn’t working, he’s complaining about the drudgery of menial office work and about being treated with a mild sort of scoffing disrespect by his manager. Alex keeps all his sarcastic comments about that to himself. But it means that John’s in a bad mood most of the time, more often holed up in his room listening to music too loudly on his headphones or taking his sketchbook and trekking to the far end of the gardens where Alex knows he goes to be left alone.

Worst of all, Henry’s away a lot. Alex thought that the Senate’s summer recess would mean he’d be around, but it turns out it’s a busy campaigning season in South Carolina, with a host of important state legislative sessions and elections happening in the fall, so Henry is working harder than ever. He still shows up to breakfast every morning when he’s at the house, but it’s seldom, and when he does he’s rarely in the mood for conversation.

Feeling frustrated and a little lonely, Alex throws all of his restless energy into the college credits he’s signed up for. The summer cohort is mostly kids who failed courses in their first semesters who have to make them up, so he’s smarter by far than all of them. And while most of the classes are online, there are a few that require him to go to lectures at a local campus - and Alex feels a very pleasant sort of thrill when he’s dropped off by the driver in a sleek black car and then takes his spot in the lecture theatre. This is a life he’s dreamed about, and one he didn’t really allow himself to hope for. But now he’s living it, and it’s exactly as good as he expected. 

Nevertheless, it’s a relief when fall comes and the family returns to the regular routine he’s become accustomed to. Alex is surprised at himself to have missed it. Mainly he’s happy to have John back on a more even keel, and to have the opportunity to refocus on Henry.

Even in September, the evenings are long and warm and humid, in a way that makes South Carolina almost feel like home. The family spends much of their free time outdoors in the extensive grounds now that the baking heat of summer has passed, and even Henry sits at the lawn tables after dinner, reading and calling for the nanny whenever one of the younger Laurens children interrupts him for too long.

Alex studies him. He's been trying to think of ways he can appeal to Henry's interests, to his soft spots. He's made a mental list of everything that makes Henry's mouth ease into a smile or that hard mask of disinterest soften even a little - but it’s frustratingly short. 

Eventually, he strikes gold. One afternoon, Jemmy and Martha are sprawled out on the grass by the lake, a chessboard between them; Alex is perched on the branches of an oak with a book - a handy spot for observing without being observed - and Henry is strolling around the vicinity of the lake with a guest, some congressman for the Charleston district who is so clearly gay that Alex isn’t sure why no one else seems to see it; Henry clearly doesn’t judging by his easy posture. Henry stops to watch their game for a moment, then laughs when Jemmy captures a knight from his sister, an exceedingly rare display of his foster father's mirth.

When Henry leaves again, Alex tracks his silhouette ascending slowly back up to the house, his dark suit like smudge in the sepia-toned early autumn light. He hops down out of the tree and watches Martha and Jemmy finish their game, letting memories of the rules and strategies come rushing back, accompanied by a somewhat unwelcome wave of twisting nostalgia.

He should have guessed Henry liked chess. There’s a beautiful wooden board in his study complete with carefully arranged, gleaming pieces - not like the children’s plastic set that he and Ned had played with as kids, throwing pieces at each other instead of playing properly when the game grew too close.

He pushes the memory aside and - after Jemmy’s brief and scattered attention span finally reaches its end and he decides that racing around the lake is a better use of his time - Alex takes the kid’s place and plays a few games against Martha. She’s a smart, tactical player, but Alex is relieved to find that he’s better; his ego couldn’t have taken losing to a girl younger than him.

Martha and Jemmy retreat to the house eventually, after the housekeeper scolds them all about exposing their skin to too much harsh southern sun. Alex snorts at that, so she gives him an amused, knowing look and leaves him to his own devices. Alex sucks on a blade of grass and sprawls on his back, thinking hard. 

He knows Henry will take to the garden after dinner, and that his foster father is in a better mood than usual. He must have reached some agreement with the congressman he was talking to earlier; the man had departed with a broad smile, ruffling Polly and Jemmy’s hair before getting into the black sedan out front. 

There must be something in the air this evening. Maybe he’s drunk off the dizzying perfume of the magnolias, but something feels different; he feels bolder, like tonight is on his side.

He sneaks out into the garden after dinner, before Henry can get there first, and sits in the shade of one of the huge, moss-draped oaks that line the patio. He has the chess board with him and he places it on the grass, lies on his stomach and begins setting up one side of the board. While he’s working, he designs the persona that he wants to play tonight in his mind - eager, awed, a little presumptuous. Henry likes to be flattered, so he might be more amenable to Alex’s overtures at a closer relationship if Alex can make him think Henry has him on the back foot.

He rolls the word _relationship_ around in his mind. He’s been struggling to define exactly what he wants from Henry. Some bastardised blend of stern father-figure and engaged mentor. Someone who cares about his success as much as he does, and won’t waste time on affection or gentleness; he needs a firm, leading hand.

Speaking of _hands,_ he’s spent all summer wallowing in shameful fantasies of what it would be like for Henry to touch him in a decidedly unfatherly way. Ever since the encounter in Henry’s office, his pretty vanilla daydreams about John and the other kids in their grade have been replaced by darker, more intent ones where Henry takes his displeasure out on him in all sorts of depraved ways.

Of course, fantasy is where that will remain, because even the notion of it happening in real life is absurd.

He shuts down that train of thought when he hears Henry’s footsteps moving quietly across the grass from the house. Alex doesn’t turn around, pretending not to notice him, and waits for his foster father to speak.

“Alexander?”

He looks up, mouth a little open in feigned surprise, letting one of the chess pieces fall back onto the board. Henry is nothing but a dense patch of darkness against the bright front of the house behind him, lit by the veranda lights and the lanterns along the gravelled pathway to the lake.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be out here tonight, I’m just...” He waves a hand towards the chessboard.

Henry sits down at one of the little wrought iron tables and takes a sip from the glass in his hand. Whiskey, probably - the drink casts little diamonds of amber lights onto the surface of the table.

“Did Martha and Jemmy leave that here?” Henry asks, flipping to a page in the paper, not looking at Alex. Still, it’s a good sign he hasn’t asked Alex to leave yet.

Alex shakes his head, keeping his voice airy, a touch nervous. “Uh, no. John said he was gonna come teach me after dinner.” This is a lie. As soon as he and John had gotten up from the dinner table, Alex asked John about a big piece of homework that’s due tomorrow that he knows for a fact his foster brother hasn’t done yet. John looked vaguely panicked, so Alex offered him his draft to copy from; he knows John’s going to be up half the night as it is, so there’s no risk of them being interrupted.

Henry snorts quietly and looks up from his paper. Alex tries to paint in the expression he can’t see through the darkness; he imagines a cynically raised eyebrow.

“You wouldn’t want Jack to give you lessons; he was never any good at chess. You didn’t learn it growing up?”

Alex ducks his head, knowing that from Henry's angle, his own face is lit by the glow from the house. It’s a strange new dimension to their imbalance of power, that his foster father can see him but Alex has to guess at Henry’s expressions.

“Um, not really.” Another lie, which he delivers with an embarrassed pout. “It wasn’t super popular back home - you know, in Saint Croix. I wish I’d learned it, though.”

Henry hums thoughtfully under his breath and Alex fiddles with a pawn, spinning it absently like a top on the board. 

“I think that, with a bit of practice, you’d be quite proficient at it. From what I’ve seen, you have the, ah - sharpness that Jack lacks, which is useful for chess.”

Alex lets out a low, slightly disbelieving laugh. “And what about the fact that I’m too impulsive? I don’t think things through enough.”

Henry lets out a low laugh, folds up his newspaper, and pats the space opposite him at the table. “I don’t disagree. Come sit here, boy. If Jack isn’t here to teach you, I suppose it falls to me.”

Alex grins and springs to his feet, crouching to gather up the chess pieces. This is going more smoothly than he’d dared to hope.

“Are you sure? I’m not imposing?”

Henry waves his hand dismissively. His face is better lit from this angle, and Alex is closer, so he can see his mouth twitch into a small smirk.

“When have you worried about imposing, Alexander?”

Alex shrugs, smiling sheepishly, and drums his hand nervously against his thigh as Henry begins to right some of the toppled pieces, turning his king and queen to face Alex’s side of the board. Alex can’t tear his eyes away from those hands. They’re so incredibly careful - maneuvering around the pieces, rubbing along the edge of the board to find the drawer where the spare pawns are kept.

“So, Alexander, do you know the names of the pieces, and the rules governing how they move?”

Alex nods hesitantly and lifts his hand to run a finger over the tops of his pieces, naming each one as he goes. 

“Very good. And you know the objective - to force the other player to checkmate his king?”

Alex nods again, and Henry takes another sip of his drink. Alex knows he’s imagining it, but he swears he can smell the whiskey from where he sits, mingling with the grass and the earthy smell off the lake.

“I think we should start a game, hmm? The best way to learn is through practice.”

Alex nods, biting his lip and looking up at Henry hesitantly from under his eyelashes. “I move first, don’t I?”

Henry nods, still watching him intently from across the table. In their usual conversations, Henry is half masked behind a newspaper or working absently on his papers; to have the full weight of Henry’s gaze on him is an uncomfortable sensation. He tries not to read something into it that he knows isn’t there, much as his brain is going to store this memory for use when he’s tucked up in bed later.

“Okay…” Alex plays at uncertainty as he pushes his third-left pawn two spaces forward, committing to the move and then looking up to watch Henry move one of his own pawns one space out of line.

Alex knows he can’t play too well this first time, even though it rankles him a little to make stupid errors. He feigns aggravation when Henry captures one of his rooks and acts as though his cornering Henry's knight was a lucky mistake. A little into the game, he lets himself grow more confident, laughing out loud when he takes one of Henry’s pawns. He cups his chin in his hand and watches his foster father push a bishop diagonally forward to take Alex’s last knight, a move he’d anticipated but decided he wouldn’t expect if he were playing for the first time.

He groans and pouts up at his foster father, who’s watching him with amusement colouring his expression.

“Shit! I was so busy watching your knight, I didn’t think to, well…” He trails off, pretending to be embarrassed at this outburst. “When did you start playing? How long before I get as good as you?”

Henry smiles, folding his arms and leaning back a little.

“Since I was a boy. But you’re quite good for a beginner. Your move, Alexander.”

Alex pretends to think hard, worrying his lip between his teeth and frowning at the board. He knows if he just moved his pawn one square forward, his bishop could close in on Henry's knight. But then, if he let this chance slip by him, Henry would get a kick out of explaining this mistake to him after it's been made - and Alex reminds himself that he’s playing up this barely believable, awed and overeager version of himself.

He ignores the move he should make and instead slides his rook across to the other end of the board. Henry smiles, takes another sip of his drink and then moves his knight to take Alex's bishop.

Alex frowns, pouting a little. "But-- Wait, I didn't know that one could move to that square."

Henry taps the top of his knight with a finger and Alex swallows thickly. Shit. He should really manage his reaction to the sight of Henry’s hands better than that.

"Remember, Alexander - the knight moves in an L-shape.” 

“Sorry, yeah, I do know that. Guess I’m just...” He pauses, glances up at Henry, then looks back down at the board with a flush. “Distracted.”

“You need to watch out, boy; you focus too much on your own pieces."

Alex nods pensively, and before Henry can lift his hand away from the board, he reaches out to touch the piece next to the rook. He’s too cowed by the gaze to look properly at what he’s doing, so it’s a complete accident when their hands brush against each other and Alex feels the warmth of Henry’s hand on his skin for the first time.

In his own moment of sudden panic, he almost doesn’t catch Henry’s small, surprised inhale. But he clearly sees that Henry glances up and studies him curiously. 

"And, earlier,” Henry asks more quietly, not moving his hand. “You sacrificed your other rook to take my knight." 

Alex feels the weighty gaze boring into him. He can't bring himself to look up and meet it, but he can feel its intensity growing. It’s hard to believe that Henry is flesh and blood sometimes, what with the statuesque figure he makes against the darkening sky. It’s _impossible_ to believe that Henry has permitted himself to be touched - and that, for a reason Alex can’t fathom, he seems to be allowing, even encouraging this.

But there is no mistaking the sudden and very human tension sparkling between them. 

“A bad trade, because rooks are more valuable?” Alex murmurs, his neck heating up. 

Henry moves his hand to touch Alex's bishop. His fingers slide lightly against the side of Alex's hand and Alex can't suppress a small shiver, shifting in his seat to disguise the movement. But Henry must do it on purpose, and then notice his discomfort, because there’s a momentary glimmer of a smile on his lips.

"Yes. See, you're a quick learner. Sacrifice the weaker pieces if you must, but preserve the strong ones."

Henry finally moves his hand away to take Alex's bishop off the board, placing it in his long line of captured white pieces. Alex has only two of Henry's, but he knows if he were playing properly, he'd have at least three or four more.

But for a moment he forgets to care about the chess match, his heart thudding heavily behind his ribs. His brain struggles to recalculate his strategy given this new information - this new sensation between them. He’s made an entirely different opening gambit now, and - beyond what he could have dreamed or expected - Henry seems interested in playing _that_ game too.

Alex doesn’t question whether pursuing this avenue is a good idea; it’s so badly what he wants that it supersedes his other plans in the moment. 

Alex shrugs to hide his sudden restlessness, leans forward a little and bows his head over the board, as though thinking hard. He pulls his hand through his hair to give it something to do, feigning aggravation, then runs his fingers over his remaining rook, as though contemplating moving it.

"I think it’s… it’s good to play with someone as experienced as you,” he says as he tucks some hair behind his ear and wills the blood to rush to his face. He risks putting the barest note of a double meaning in his tone. “You can study their moves. I normally never know what you’re thinking. But, here, everything seems... clearer.”

Henry watches him in silence. Alex’s fingers land on a pawn. The smartest move would be to move it forward and let Henry take it, so he can get closer to his knight. He knows Henry is aware of this play, so he thinks hard about how to circumnavigate this, willing his brain to focus rather than spin off into lewder thoughts. There’s a beat of silence, and Alex makes his move.

He shifts the pawn forward, but Henry doesn’t take the bait. He pushes his knight two squares diagonally, away from Alex’s nearest piece. The cicadas are beginning to hum, but underneath the steady buzz, Alex can hear his own heart, pounding like frantically beating wings in his chest. He laughs breathlessly - it’s only half feigned - and lets out a low groan of frustration.

“Everything's... out on the table. And yet I still can't always anticipate your next move."

Henry laughs, something dark colouring his amusement. "Have you been studying me, then, Alexander?"

Alex shrugs coyly and chances a look up at Henry, forcing himself to meet that stare head on. He knows the deferential, awed role of the scrappy foster kid works on his foster father, but there's no point pretending Alex isn't suggesting a myriad of things here, being bolder than usual in his nudges towards _more_.

"Well, if anyone's being studied, it's me,” he says, turning his face shyly to one side. “You always seem to know what I'm about to do." He gestures at the board, smiling sheepishly. "In the game and, sometimes… in other ways."

Henry hums thoughtfully under his breath and pushes a pawn away from Alex’s rook. Alex watches those fingers skim over the smooth wood, dark shadows over the softly glowing board.

“I suppose I see in you the things I have realised Jack doesn’t have,” Henry says. 

These words send an unexpected spark of delight and guilt and triumph through Alex, conducted through the chessboard they’re both touching like an electrical pulse. 

“Thank you, sir.” And this time the honorific isn’t tacked on as an afterthought, or a disdainful sneer. It comes out without a second’s hesitation, as natural as breathing. He doesn’t miss the way Henry’s left hand flexes slightly, fingers curling instinctively around nothing and straightening out just as quickly. 

Alex decides the opportunity he sees to take Henry’s bishop is too good to pass, especially now that Henry has praised him for his cunning. He pushes the rook forward and blocks the piece against the edge of the board. Even if Henry wanted to save it now, he’d risk opening his king up to Alex. 

He allows himself a grin, pleased more at Henry’s affirmation and piercing attention than the smart move. 

Despite the dramatically exciting way the evening has changed course, Alex isn’t intending anything to happen tonight, even though, in the several dozen possible ways this evening could go, there may be a few in which Henry might finally drop some of that iron stoicism and reveal more of his cards than Alex has seen already. But the smart move is to wait, and plan - so he only wants to let this energy crackle in the air between them for a little longer, to be certain Henry can feel it. Besides, when he allows Henry to win, he’s sure he’ll be able to persuade him into coaching him further. 

They play for another ten minutes, and Alex pretends to be so engrossed in the game that he doesn’t notice his knee brushing Henry’s when he shifts forwards intently. His foster father has finished his whiskey, and Alex wonders if the man would be more malleable after one or two more. Something to think about. The holidays _are_ approaching.

Finally, Henry knocks his queen against Alex’s king to topple the piece, letting out a soft laugh. Alex looks up and notices with some surprise that it’s fully dark already. Henry leans back in his chair, and Alex catches a glimpse of strong thighs shifting out from under the table.

“Checkmate,” he announces, and when Alex finally drags his eyes up to meet Henry’s, the look he finds is triumphant and searching, like Henry is telling him that he’s implying more with his one word. Alex forces himself to hold the gaze for a moment, even though something right at his core is screaming at him to submit and look away. He grips the tops of his thighs to stop himself from doing something ill-advised, and then breaks the eye-contact.

“There’s so much I have to learn,” Alex murmurs, picking up his fallen king and turning it over in his hands. He smiles his gratitude, and feels the colour rushing back to his cheeks. “This was really, ah - stimulating. But I’m sorry, you _do_ normally sit out here alone. I should have set up somewhere else.”

Henry laughs a little condescendingly. “Don’t fret over it, Alexander, I’d certainly say if I didn’t want company. Perhaps we’ll play again, since you’re a quick study.”

Alex has to contort his instinctive grin of triumph into a more deferential, awed look of delight. It won’t do to let Henry know how calculated this is, and that Alex has won the more important game that they have been playing. It’s best if Henry think that he’s steering this.

“I’d be really happy to,” Alex manages, trying to let a little emotion creep into his voice. Henry is collecting up the pieces and pulling open the little drawer on the side of the board. 

“Take this back inside with you,” Henry orders, motioning to the board, and Alex understands he’s being dismissed. He picks up the board and lets his right hand brush Henry’s forearm as he leans in, feels the warm touch of skin and the hairs on his own arms raise at the contact.

He can feel his foster father’s eyes on him as he walks away across the lawn, clutching the chess board to his chest, keeping his head high. He thinks if he looked over his shoulder to meet that gaze, it would burn him. But it’s vital that Henry feels in control of this, and not as if he is the one being pursued. So he keeps his eyes on the house and his back turned to the growing darkness. 

But he’s beyond pleased with this outcome. They’ve both put more cards on the table - Alex is tingling from the touches and the prodding looks - and the fact that Henry was willing to spend an entire evening with him says volumes. After all, whatever the physical contact may have meant, the bigger goal of getting Henry’s patronage is also progressing well. He needs to prep some better conversation for the next game; time to make another visit to Henry’s library.

Alex blinks in the sudden glare of the bright porch lights up on the veranda and shakes his head to clear it. He looks down at his hand and realises then that it’s trembling. His face is hot, despite the growing coolness in the air - adrenaline, maybe, but also an acute feeling of arousal that he has been trying to tamp down. He shivers at the pronounced disparity between his burning skin, the hairs standing up on his arms, and the cool, quiet night around him.

Fire is racing under his skin and he thinks he might burn up from the inside if he doesn’t find release soon. He hurries through the double doors and up the stairs to the bathroom, his breaths coming out quick and shallow.

The spray of the shower hits him, too hot against his already burning skin. The feeling is entirely too much like having Henry’s gaze on him, and he closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool tile wall. 

Henry. _Fuck_. Until tonight, he wasn’t certain what he wanted from the man. He might have fantasised about it, the want stirring inside him from flashes of that heavy gaze. But tonight, practically doused in Henry’s keen attention and meeting it unflinchingly, he feels certain now.

Alex reaches down and wraps a hand around himself, opens his mouth in a silent groan and grips tightly. He tries to seize onto the recollection of how Henry’s hand felt against his own, the sight of his firm thighs and strong forearms. Alone, these things appeal to Alex, but in Henry… _in Henry,_ they mean power and control and the ability to command submission. Alex doesn’t like people telling him what to do, but from Henry he wouldn’t just tolerate it - he’d welcome it, invite it, beg for it.

Alex comes with a choked groan after barely a dozen strokes, one hand pressed hard against the cool wall. He’s trembling violently, suddenly too hot again under the scorching water, too sensitive in his own tight grip - but he doesn't let up or step away, because somehow he imagines Henry would _want_ him to endure this. 

He feels wrong-footed, like this sudden desire is incongruous with everything he thought he knew about his own ambitions thus far. But then, he considers, this sudden twist, however unexpected, doesn’t have to derail his plans at all. In fact, and Alex thinks back to the brush of Henry’s hand against his, the gaze that seemed to strip him down to the bone, there’s power in this. 

These flashes of desire, the energy that hums between them at unexpected moments — they’re mutual. Alex may not be as experienced and knowledgeable about this stuff as he’s let John believe, but he recognises the look he saw in Henry’s eyes tonight. Every other time he’s seen it, all in kids his age — inexperienced and uncertain and scrappy - it has felt diluted and desperate. But Henry? Henry had made him feel as though he was being touched, just with that fierce gaze. He wonders what the man would do to him, would drag out of him, if he ever did get his hands on Alex’s bare skin.

Alex washes away the mess under the hot spray, deep in thought. Now though, he isn’t wary of anticipating a victory. He _will_ learn how to play all of Henry’s games, and it’s going to feel good when he wins.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A character says a homophobic slur, and then there's a bit of touching that falls squarely into the dubious consent zone. Proceed with care!

The nights get chillier by November - not cold by any means, but certainly uncomfortable to Alex’s skin, which is used to tropical sunlight and humidity - so they shift their chess games indoors. 

Ever since the first match, they have played at least one or two times a week, and it becomes a regular fixture of the evening domestic landscape of the Laurens household - another way, Alex reflects, that his presence has changed the existing order of things.

John teases him about it at first, thinking that Henry is the one who’s cornered Alex into this as an exercise for developing strategic skills - because, he reveals, that’s what Henry tried to do with him. But John had found the games so uncomfortable that he’d started losing badly on purpose, and his father had gotten the hint.

At first, Alex walks a fine line between pretending annoyance and revealing his genuine enjoyment, but eventually he drops the act. It doesn’t matter anyway - it’s not like they’re hiding it, and it’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.

 _Unfortunately not_ , Alex adds to himself. 

Although the games have continued, that brief frisson between them hasn’t resurfaced. He wonders if Henry is waiting for him to make the first move again, or if perhaps he’s cowed by the legal or moral implications of what it would mean to touch his foster son in the way they both seem to have entertained. But that seems laughable. Alex has studied up on the relevant laws in South Carolina and is stunned to find that, since he’s over sixteen, and despite him being in Henry’s care, it would be entirely legal for them to have a sexual relationship. And it still boggles his mind to think that Henry might be inclined _that_ way, given his policy stance and his conservative social attitude. Then again, hypocrisy is hardly uncommon among politicians.

The lax legal position is a disappointment not only because of its horrid implications, but also because an idea had briefly germinated in Alex’s mind. He’d considered getting Henry into that compromising position in order to create some potent leverage that Alex could use to get even more out of him. But he scuppers that plan. Having evidence of something actually illegal is one thing; claiming something improper, given Henry’s ironclad public persona and decades of branding, would be much less effective as a means of blackmail.

But even with only the barest hints of that electric current between them, the chess games are useful. It gives them time to talk, and Alex time to show off how much he’s learning and how quickly he can think on his feet. At first his strategy is to memorise things Henry has said and come back next time with an opinion on them; then, as he gets bolder, he starts to pre-empt Henry’s topics or even introduce his own. 

Sometimes they’ll colonise the dining room after dinner, sometimes one of the downstairs lounges. On rare occasions, like tonight, Henry will take Alex to his study - Henry seated on the black leather couch, Alex on the floor across the low coffee table. 

Henry’s in a foul mood this evening, but he has agreed to the match, and Alex isn’t going to let his foster father’s grumpiness interfere with his ongoing charm offensive. 

Besides, he thinks he knows why Henry is out of sorts, and it has nothing to do with the scraped knuckles and purpling mark over one cheekbone that John came home with this afternoon. Alex has become a voracious reader of South Carolina political gossip blogs, and it seems that the spending measure Henry is so keen on - something vile that will cut funding to state schools if they prescribe ‘indecent’ science textbooks that don’t teach the creationism debate - is coming under pressure from the Charleston delegation. It’s been happening more often, probably as a result of the city’s inevitable drift towards the more liberal end of the spectrum.

And if it’s got anything to do with the congressman Henry was escorting around some time ago, Alex has been cooking up a scheme and he now knows exactly what Henry can do about it. So this is his chance to show his strategic mind in a new context. A first gambit at proving that he can be more useful to Henry politically than just being a passive signifier of his charity.

He opens coyly - both his chess move and his conversation.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

Henry’s had a few drinks already this evening, so that must loosen his tongue; Alex also suspects Henry has started to see him as something of a confidant. After all, it’s not like he has a lot of people to talk safely to about his concerns, and Alex is hardly in a position to tell anyone what he’s heard.

“Trouble at work, Alexander, but nothing for you to be concerned about.” 

Henry moves thoughtlessly, immediately exposing his bishop, but Alex chooses to ignore the opening. 

“Not the spending bill?” Alex says cautiously.

Henry sighs. 

“I can’t believe anyone would dare to fight _you_ on it,” Alex muses absently. “It’s like they don’t know what’s in their best interests.”

Henry chuckles darkly. “I wish they all thought as you did, Alexander.”

Alex chews on his lip as they play the next few moves in silence. Then he hesitates with two fingers on his rook and says, “Sorry if this is a stupid thing to say, but… Couldn’t you find a way to put pressure on them? Outmanoeuvre them?” He puts his rook back down and laughs awkwardly. “I mean, the way you’re chasing me around this board…”

A snide smile curls Henry’s lip. “You’re not on form tonight.”

Alex suppresses his eye roll. He’s had at least three openings to take valuable pieces that he has forced himself to breeze past. “Sorry, sir. Guess I’m just not, ah, paying attention.” He flicks his eyes up quickly to Henry, catches him looking, then looks down at his lap with a blush - inviting more of this tension to grow between them. 

Henry sighs and pulls back from the board, creaking the leather of his couch as he leans against the backrest.

“If you must know, Alexander, the congressional delegate from Charleston has been attempting to appeal to his more, ah, progressive constituents. It is an election year, after all.”

Alex takes a breath. Just as he thought. Here’s his opening.

“If being gay hasn’t affected his chances, well…” he mutters under his breath, his tone perfectly calculated to be off-hand and derisive.

Henry frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Alex widens his eyes, pretending like he’s spoken out of turn. “Um… Is that-- I mean, isn’t that obvious, sir?”

Henry’s eyebrows narrow dangerously.

“Oh, well, it’s just that I caught him looking,” Alex says with a red-faced cringe, tangling his words on purpose. “At, um. Not at me. At John, the last time he came to dinner. I mean, either he’s gay or he likes checking out boys, I guess…” He trails off.

Henry is frowning, but the distasteful leer is warring with a sparkle in his eyes. “A rumour is not going to be enough, especially coming from someone like you.”

Alex forces himself to ignore the dig. “What if there was evidence?” he whispers, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.

“I’m not getting Jack involved.”

“What? I’d never suggest involving Saint John in something like this!” Alex flashes a quick, deprecating eye roll at the chessboard, and silently sends John an apology. Henry huffs in matching amusement. “But maybe...” Alex picks up his defeated bishop and rolls it on the circumference of its base. “Maybe I could do it?”

Henry watches him silently for a long moment, and Alex feels himself genuinely cowering under the eyes that he doesn’t dare meet. Shit. Has he pushed it too far? Played his hand too openly? Is Henry going to send him up to his room?

“What did you have in mind?”

Alex suppresses his relieved sigh. “Well,” he says slowly, as though puzzling through this idea that he has meticulously considered already. “It would be enough for _you_ to catch him, right? So, if I managed to, um… Get him in a compromising position? And you, ah, happened to walk in?”

He must be imagining the faint, momentary flush of red on Henry’s cheeks. It’s certainly gone when he looks up again a moment later.

Henry keeps his tone carefully neutral. “Why would you offer to do such a thing?”

Alex squirms a little and looks down. This is it. He’s getting so close, he can’t screw this up now. He lowers his voice to a hushed, confessional murmur. “It’s just, you’ve done _so_ much for me, and I just wish I could find a way to repay you.”

He licks his lips fleetingly, trying to hint at another form of repayment that would have been acceptable if Henry had not shunned it.

“Hmm.” Henry leans forward. “What are you _really_ up to, boy?”

Alex cringes, then tries to hide it, then realises that looking uncomfortable is appropriate to his situation. He forces himself to look up at Henry and decides that maybe just a pinch of honesty will sell his offer.

“I mean it. I want to give something back. But also,” he says, a little shakily, “You operate in this world where power and influence and image are everything. I… I want to learn. I want to get ahead, and I don’t want to have to take the long way to get to my goal. I was hoping you could help me.”

It’s perhaps the most honest thing he’s ever said to Henry, even though it’s wrapped in layers of artifice.

Again, Henry observes him for a long, silent moment. But there’s a different tenor to the look now - curious, perhaps, or calculating. Eventually, Henry sets his glass down and clasps his hands together.

“Very well. I will invite him to dinner next week.”

Alex looks up, trying not to appear too excited. He nods carefully.

“You’d better not disappoint me, Alexander.”

“No, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

\----- 

The next morning, they all get to breakfast before Henry does - an exceedingly rare occurrence. Alex and John take their seats across from each other, at Henry’s left and right hands, and it gives Alex a chance to study his foster brother for a moment. John’s cheek and eye are a mottled purple-yellow, though luckily it’s not swollen, but he still looks like he’s in a foul mood. 

“You shouldn’t let your temper get the better of you,” Martha scoffs as she pours juice for everyone.

John glowers. “You are _not_ one to talk.”

“Ugh, don’t be such a girl, John,” she whines. “Alex, tell him to man up.”

“Woah, woah,” Alex holds up his hands. “Leave me out of it.”

“Pussy,” Martha mutters.

John glances up at her, then at the younger kids. “Language, Martha! Jesus.”

She drops down into her chair. “Don’t _blaspheme,_ Jack,” she mocks, in such a convincing imitation of Henry that Harry, who’s been pretending to ignore the conversation and look at his phone, snorts.

Alex can see John’s expression darkening.

“No phones at the table, Harry,” he says, his voice measured but full of tension.

Harry shrugs, looks back at his screen and mutters to himself, “Oh, piss off.”

In a second, John jumps to his feet, his chair scraping against the wooden floor, and bangs the flat of his hand against the table. The crockery rattles, and they all turn to stare at him. 

“I said, put it away! For fuck’s sake, Harry, have some fucking respect!” he yells, then shoves his chair away and storms out of the room.

They all sit in stunned silence, looking around at each other with wide, incredulous eyes. Jemmy looks up at Alex with worry all over his face, as though asking for reassurance now that his oldest brother isn’t there to offer it.

Harry breaks the silence. “Must be his time of the month,” he says snidely.

That’s the final straw for Alex. He turns and leans into Jemmy. “You wanna go get John for us, kid? I bet he’s outside under the big oak. Tell him it’s okay and that we want him to join us. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jemmy says seriously, and trots out of the room. There’s nothing Alex can do about Polly being here to witness what he’s about to say, but he figures she’s too young to really understand it anyway.

Alex stands up, a little less aggressively than John, but he throws his napkin down on the table. 

“You,” he says, pointing at Harry. “There’s no need for you to be _such_ an asshole, you know that?”

Harry looks at him with feigned confusion.

“And you,” Alex turns to Martha, “You should really know better. Of all people, you know how much time and energy John devotes to taking care of all you ungrateful shits.”

Martha snorts and crosses her arms. “Just because my dad took you in, it doesn’t mean you’re actually part of this family. So fuck off and mind your own business.”

Alex takes a deep breath. He lowers his voice. “You wanna know why John got in a fight?”

“Because someone called him a fag?” Harry says.

“No,” Alex growls. “And don’t you fucking use that word.”

“Don’t tell me what to--” Harry starts, but Alex cuts him off.

“They were saying shit about your mom.”

That gets their attention. Harry’s mouth hangs open, mid-word, and Martha scowls. “What?” she says.

Alex hadn’t seen the start of it, but he’d arrived in time to see John beating on some white kid and he’d gotten the gist of it from the spectators. Some of the bigger guys had pulled them apart, and Alex had stepped in to lead an absolutely fuming John away. They hadn’t said a word about it since.

“Yeah,” Alex sighs. “Some racist shit. Really ugly stuff. About your dad too, and all of you by association. I’m not going to repeat the slurs, but if you’re thinking it, you’re probably right.”

Harry looks down at the table. Martha scowls, but it’s clear her anger is no longer directed at Alex. “Shit,” she murmurs. 

A heavy silence falls around them. 

Then Henry arrives, looking like he is in a hurry, and Alex sits back down. Henry ruffles Polly’s hair, picks up his newspaper from the sideboard, and sits down.

“Where is Jack?” he asks at no one in particular.

“Jemmy spilled some juice,” Martha says quickly. “John went to help him get cleaned up.”

Henry hums and unfolds his newspaper, and Alex shoots Martha a grateful look. Then they hear footsteps approaching and Martha tilts her head significantly towards Henry, raising her eyebrows. 

Alex jumps in at once, distracting Henry from John and Jemmy’s return. “Ah, sir, I read an interesting opinion piece on the Deloitte scandal we were discussing the other day? About how current federal regulations aren’t effective against that sort of inter-state fraud?”

Martha rolls her eyes, but it’s more amused than sarcastic now, and Alex’s comment does the trick to divert Henry’s attention. When John sits down next to her again, she puts a hand on his arm and squeezes. He looks over and she mouths a silent apology, and John nods and smiles ruefully in return. 

Harry doesn’t look up to meet his brother’s eye.

\----- 

The planned dinner with the Charleston congressman a few nights later gets off to a rocky start for Alex, and it’s all John’s fault.

Well, he can’t _exactly_ blame his foster brother for being both handsome and entirely lacking in common sense or self-esteem. The congressman is very subtle about his interest in Henry’s presence, but it’s clear as day to Alex, and John plays into it like an idiot. 

Alex can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy at John’s naivety as he smiles politely and gamefully answers increasingly intrusive questions about his future plans, interests and personal life. Alex tries deflecting some of the attention to himself, with little success. The man simply isn’t interested in him, and that’s a problem. 

He shoots glances at Henry and observes his foster father getting increasingly uncomfortable, now that he is aware of the reason for the congressman’s excessive interest in John. Alex is becoming an expert at reading his tells - the thin, tight line of Henry’s lips, the white-knuckle grip on his cutlery, the way he pours himself more wine even before everyone else has finished their glasses.

At least it’s amusing to watch, which distracts from his frustration at being overlooked next to John. He should be happy not to be the target of this pervert’s focus, but Alex doesn’t like being second best at anything.

“So, John,” the congressman asks, “What are your plans for college? Smart boy like you, you must have a lot of options.”

“Oh, um, I’m still deciding.” John throws Henry a wary glance. “There are so many good schools, after all.”

“I recommend going out of state,” the congressman muses. “Get out from under dad’s thumb - eh, Henry?”

Henry grumbles something and stares darkly at the painting hanging on the wall opposite him.

“Well, _I_ was thinking of going back up north,” Alex says lightly, trying to join the conversation. “Back to New York, where I’m from. Or New England at least. You know, Harvard, Cornell, one of those.” It’s not true - Henry has backed him into a corner with Georgetown - but it gives him something to say.

“You wouldn’t want _your_ head filled up with all the nonsense those liberal schools spout, now would you, John?” 

“I guess not, sir,” John says, avoiding Henry’s gaze like his life depends on it. Because Alex knows that’s exactly what John wants - but he doesn’t have any way of applying without Henry finding out, and even if he did get in, Henry’s is not going to pay for it and John has not been smart enough to save up any money of his own. The decision has been made for him, too.

“All of my boys are going to Georgetown,” Henry says curtly. “End of discussion.”

Alex sees the congressman give John a secretive wink as if to say ‘fathers, huh?’ and he barely manages not to roll his eyes. A glance at Henry reveals he’s noticed too, and Alex is half worried he’s going to snap the wineglass stem that he’s squeezing tightly in his fist.

\-----

At long last, the meal is over, and Henry invites the congressman to join him for an after-dinner scotch in the library. This is the pre-arranged signal. Henry’s going to fake an important call, and then Alex will slip in.

Alex hovers around the corner from the library and waits, kicking his heels nervously against the skirting. Much of the bravado from last week when he suggested the plan seems to have left him, and suddenly this idea seems more stupid than inspired. He’s certain that he didn’t misread the congressman’s proclivities, but he seemed so absorbed in John over dinner and barely spared Alex a second glance. That’s not going to stop him; it just means he’ll have to work harder.

And of course John interferes here as well. He comes around the corner, absorbed in his phone, and gives a little start when he sees Alex just standing there.

“Alex? What are you doing?”

Shit. He needs to ditch John quickly, before he misses his cue.

“What does it look like i’m doing?” he responds rudely.

“Uh, standing in the corridor?”

“Yeah, well, it’s a free fucking country, isn’t it?”

John narrows his eyes. “Wow, okay, do whatever you want. Weirdo.”

He saunters off with a shrug that looks just a little too dismissive to be genuine.

Not a moment too soon. Alex hears the library door open and Henry’s apologetic voice. “I’m terribly sorry. This may take a few minutes, but please make yourself comfortable.” Henry’s footfalls recede down the corridor and Alex inhales deeply. Go time.

He slips into the library. The congressman is lounging in one of the armchairs with his back to the door, a generous glass of whiskey in his hand. He’s inconspicuous enough that Alex can pretend not to see him as he slips into the room, then walks into his field of view and runs a slender hand over a few book spines. 

“Oh, hello there.”

Alex turns and jumps in feigned surprise at discovering he’s not alone.

“Oh, sorry!” he gasps. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” 

“That’s okay,” the congressman says. “I’m waiting for Henry.”

Alex flushes and bites his lip. “Shit. I’m not supposed to be in here. Please don’t tell Mr Laurens?”

The congressman smiles. “Alexander, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Alex looks up at him with wide eyes. He takes a step closer. “It’s good to know I can trust you.”

The congressman eyes him suspiciously. “You’d better run along before you get caught, though.”

Alex bites his lip and raises his eyebrows a little further. 

“I don’t want to get into any trouble, but…” He throws a wary glance at the door, then drops his voice. “I lied, sir. I didn’t come in here by accident. I knew you’d be here and I was hoping…” He trails off and looks down nervously.

“What?” Is that a rough little edge to the word that Alex picks up? Already? A few suggestive glances is all it takes?

Alex takes another step closer, so that he’s just a foot away. He runs a hand nervously along the side of his thigh, and the man flicks his eyes to it before looking back up. Jesus.

“I know my brother is really handsome. He always gets everyone’s attention,” Alex says softly, and a little pointedly. “But I was wondering… Do you think I’m pretty, too?”

The congressman swallows heavily. “You’re-- Ah. You’re fine, Alexander. You should run along, now.”

Alex pouts and looks down, ignoring the suggestion. “Oh,” he says, all disappointment. “Just fine? Does that mean you don’t want to touch me?”

“Alexander, this is not appropriate.”

“I won’t tell, I promise! It’s just, the boys at school don’t seem interested and I’m worried that no one will ever want to touch me and I just want someone to say that they like me-- Oh, god, sorry!” He cringes and buries his face in his hands, pretending to let out a sob.

A hand touches his thigh, just above his knee. And it’s that pathetically easy. 

“Don’t be upset, Alexander. Those school boys are silly if they don’t appreciate you.”

“So I’m not--” He hiccups around a sharp inhale. “I’m not ugly?”

The hand strokes higher.

“Of course not.”

“Really?” Alex lowers his hands, partly so that he can throw a glance at the clock on the mantle; Henry should be back any minute now. Good. He can handle a bit of touching, but it’s not like he wants this pervert’s hands all over him. 

He looks down with tear-damp eyes.

“Really.” The hand reaches his hip. The congressman keeps his eyes on Alex’s face as he carefully untucks the shirt there, then - when Alex doesn’t pull away - slips his fingers underneath to stroke against the hot skin. “In fact, I think you’re very pretty indeed.”

Alex shudders in distaste at the touch, but he knows it will come across as trembling eagerness.

“Sit down for a moment, Alexander,” the congressman says, patting his thigh. “We only have a second, but I wanted to show you something.”

Alex swallows heavily. 

Where the fuck is Henry? 

He can’t back off now, because the entire ruse relies on Henry catching them in the act. So Alex steps forward and gingerly lowers himself, sideways, into the man’s lap. The hand never leaves his skin, though it now slides around to his lower back.

“Give me your hand.”

Alex bites his lip, then complies.

The congressman tugs it forward, then presses Alex’s palm against his groin, where Alex can feel the stiffening press of an erection. His skin crawls. “Do you feel that, Alexander? _That’s_ how pretty you are.”

Alex swallows again. “Wow,” he whispers, as the fingers on his back trail down to the curve of his ass. He feels a tremble run through him again, so he looks away - and right into Henry’s black eyes.

Henry’s standing in the entrance. Silent. Watching. Smiling cruelly.

The congressman has his back to the door, so he hasn’t noticed - and won’t, until either Alex or Henry give it away. 

So what the _fuck_ is Henry doing? Why is he prolonging this?

Alex’s cheeks burn shamefully under the dual scrutiny. But, shit, this whole situation is so depraved that he actually feels himself stirring too.

The congressman notices and hums, then pinches his ass. “Are you being a bad boy, Alexander?”

“Oh! Um…” He can’t prevent the way his gaze drifts back to Henry. They lock eyes. “I just can’t help it, sir.”

The congressman’s hand releases Alex’s and grazes lightly against the fabric straining over his groin. Alex yelps in alarm. Shit, this is going too far! Why the hell is Henry just _standing_ there?

He looks up at his foster father over the congressman’s shoulder. Henry’s eyebrow raises. Mockingly. 

Alex realises in a flash that Henry’s doing this to prove some sort of point. But he doesn’t know what it is - and he can’t focus on figuring it out while that foreign hand is pressing down against him.

“No, sir,” he says, trying to shift away a little without standing up, “We shouldn’t--”

He glances up. Henry tilts his head silently. The congressman’s fingers start curling around him.

“Please!” Alex’s eyes are on Henry. His chest is tightening and his cheeks are on fire. He’s pleading, now, but it’s his foster father who he’s really addressing. “ _Please._ ”

Henry relents. He steps back into the corridor and approaches again, loudly, clearing his throat.

The second he appears in the doorway again, Alex leaps up to his feet. The congressman blanches and turns around.

“What is the meaning of this?” Henry says coldly.

Alex sucks in a panicked breath. “Oh my god, sir, I’m--”

“Get out of here, Alexander.”

“Yes, sir.” He ducks his head and hurries to the door, where Henry is half-blocking his exit. Henry stares him down coolly as Alex squeezes past. 

“Close the door behind you, Alexander.”

Alex steps outside and puts his hand on the doorknob. He just about hears Henry say, “Now, about the spending measure…” before the door clicks closed and he can finally exhale.

\-----

Alex flees the library and dashes up the stairs. He almost turns and goes into his room; it’s still weird for him to think that he has a space all to his own - not completely private, of course, because the maids go in and out and ever since the weed incident they aren’t allowed to lock their doors - but his nonetheless.

But Alex doesn’t want to be alone right now. His skin is itching where the congressman touched him, and it’s not a good feeling. And what the fuck was Henry’s goal with that little stunt? Was he just enjoying watching Alex suffer? Or did Henry want to take him down a peg or two? Whatever it is, the cheek-burning shame of Henry seeing him in such a compromising position is perhaps even more acute than the lingering memory of the fingers snaking between his legs.

He continues down the hall and knocks lightly on John’s door.

There’s a noncommittal grumble from inside, and that’s enough permission for Alex. He eases the door open and slips inside.

John’s lying on his bed, stretched out and reading the set work for their English class. He gives Alex a questioning look around the side of the book.

“Hey,” Alex says, and then realises - damn, he should have thought of an excuse before coming in.

John just goes back to reading. He’s used to siblings barging in. 

Suddenly Alex feels the overwhelming urge to touch John - just to have some physical contact that isn’t tainted and twisted - so he puts on a cheeky smile and climbs boisterously onto the bed, right over John, positioning himself the other way around and leaning one leg against John’s shin. The little patch of warm contact steadies his nerves. 

John sighs quietly and puts his book down. “What’s up?”

Alex reaches down and toys with the hem of his shirt, which is still untucked. “That guy from dinner. Did you get the sense that he was a bit, I dunno, strange?”

John raises an eyebrow. “You obviously haven’t met a lot of politicians.”

Alex rolls his eyes, but internally he’s disappointed that John doesn’t readily agree with him. Then again, John didn’t just have that man’s searching eyes on him, or his hand down his shirt and gripping his-- 

“Hey, you okay?”

John’s voice cuts through, tinged with concern. When did John become so good at reading him?

Alex shrugs dismissively. He can’t actually acknowledge the source of his discomfort, and Alex _doesn’t_ need someone fussing over him. “Yeah, of course.”

John gives the barest eye-roll but he doesn’t ask again. 

“I just thought he was creepy, is all,” Alex says.

“I guess.”

“He was really interested in you.”

John flushes slightly. “What?”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek. John can’t really be this naive, can he? Did he completely miss the intrusive questions and the little leers? John’s a good guy and Alex doesn’t want him blundering into some fucked-up situation because he was blind to the obvious danger signs.

“You shouldn’t, you know, give away so much about yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“At dinner. That guy was asking you stuff he had no business knowing.”

“It’s just conversation, Alex.”

“Oh yeah?” Alex says, annoyed at John’s dismissive attitude, especially since he has visceral first-hand experience that he’s right. “Your dad’s guest shouldn’t be asking you about who you’re dating, John, or how you, and I quote, ‘keep in such great shape’.”

John goes redder. “I was being polite.”

“Lie, next time, then.” Alex sighs. “You just need to be careful out there, okay? Trust me.”

“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?” John scoffs. 

Alex frowns frowns into his lap, where he can still see the ghostly afterimage of that hand fondling him. “Whatever.”

John sighs. “Look, you’re welcome to hang out, but I have to finish at least the next one and a bit chapters before class.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’ll leave you in peace.”

Alex climbs off the bed again and strolls out with a wave, then goes back to his room and closes the door. His stomach is a mess of conflicting emotions. The revulsion stands out strongest, but - he considers, as he changes out of his clothes and into his pyjamas, oddly exhausted even though it’s not that late - there is a perverse little glow of pride there too. It was laughably easy to trap the congressman. Alex came up with the idea himself and executed it perfectly, based purely on his own observations and social skills. And it really helped Henry, too. His foster father is going to be so grateful.

That’s what he tells himself, as he brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed, examining his face in the mirror. That it’s not anxiety he’s feeling.

That it’s triumph.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Some people are racist dicks here, so tread carefully.

The encounter with the congressman must shake something loose inside Alex, because he finds himself overcome with restlessness. 

It’s like he has ants crawling under his skin. He fidgets though classes he usually has no problem focusing on, finds that his leg is bouncing when he sits down to dinner, and struggles to stay still long enough to get through the some of the denser chapters of Hume’s _Essays_. It’s not normal. He starts taking walks around the lake just so he can burn off enough of his twitchiness to allow himself to think, recording his ideas on a voice note before they can flutter away. 

Only two things _really_ help. 

The first is jerking off in the shower, because a lot of the excess energy seems to be linked to a vague feeling of semi-permanent arousal. It’s a temporary solution, but it gets him through breakfast and about half of the school day, at which point he finds his mind and his eye wandering over all the attractive bodies around him. Male or female, student or teacher, it doesn’t matter. All it takes is for him to glimpse the swell of a breast, a pouted lip, a tensed thigh, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek or press the nib of his pen into the palm of his hand to refocus himself. 

Ironically, given the texture of his energy, the other thing that helps is being around John, and touching him in the entirely platonic way they have grown into. The contact soothes rather than inflames him, and Alex realises how little he actually touches other people during the day when he finally gets the chance to sling an arm around John or sprawl next to him on the couch.

Lately, John seems to be on his own journey. Alex doesn’t know what has changed, but in the last few months, John has started - well, not exactly rebelling, but at least acting out against his father in an increasing number of covert ways. 

Alex detects it in the subtle way John’s tone has shifted from entirely deferential to tinged with just a note of insolence when Henry finds a reason to give him a talking-to; the way John starts to break curfew by a few minutes, like he’s trying to see how far he can push it; the way John still locks his bedroom door even though it’s not allowed any more; the way he keeps getting hold of the shitty weed going around school that’s mostly tobacco; the way he drops his failed term paper on Henry’s desk with a shrug and manages to look bored when Henry rips into him for it, waving Alex’s report card in the air as the example of what he expects from his eldest son. Most tellingly, except during meals, John makes a point of leaving the room if his father enters.

Alex doesn’t mind. It gives him more time alone with Henry, and it casts him in a better light given the contrast between their attitudes and achievements. So, whenever it seems like John’s mood towards his father is softening again, he slips in an off-hand mention of something Henry said that he knows John will find offensive or insensitive, and it stokes the fire right back up again. If John wants to burn all his bridges and abdicate his prime position in Henry’s orbit, Alex is more than happy to sneak in and claim the vacated spot. 

Whatever the reason for John’s newfound rebelliousness, he takes Alex’s physical clinginess in stride - and even seems to welcome it. Whenever they bundle up under the covers to watch a movie together, or huddle against the chilly evenings behind a copse of trees at the far end of the lake to smoke one of John’s joint, they both find ways to touch - their shoulders and legs pressed together, or Alex tucked under John’s arm, or his legs draped over John’s lap. They fall asleep on top of each other in odd positions, and sometimes wake up the next morning together in one of their beds. 

For Alex, there’s no feeling like it - warmth and comfort and calmness, shrouded in the innocent safety of the way John pokes his ribs and calls him _little brother._

The only downside is having to divide his loyalties. As the rift between father and son inches imperceptibly wider, Alex finds that managing his relationship with both of them becomes a more delicate balancing act - enumerating John’s failings to Henry in one breath, and then ranting about Henry’s latest draconian rule to John in the next. 

But Alex can manage their egos easily enough, and he needs to keep the two of them on his side, even if not on each others’ - because both John and Henry are going to be critical to his success.

\-----

Since Alex can’t focus much anyway, tagging along to watch John’s polo matches gives him an excuse to get out of the stifling house, and to score points with his foster brother.

Alex sits in the bleachers alone. He tells himself it’s by choice, because he genuinely can’t stand the posh kids who choose to spend their Saturdays here. But there’s no hiding the fact that he stands out in all the most painful ways. John’s scuffed old boots, which Alex has now adopted, are well below the average standard but still probably worth more than all the clothes in his closet combined. His cheap grey coat doesn’t do much to keep out the draughts, but it’s the nicest thing he has, so he risks getting mud splattered on it instead of showing up in some old Sears sweater. And of course he doesn’t look and talk and move like the others, who carry their old money status in every flick of a hand or non-ironic comment about alpine resorts.

But none of it matters when he gets to watch this alternative-reality version of John, confident and aggressive in all the right ways, but still his John underneath it - jumping off his horse to check on an opponent who gets unseated, and giving his team members pep talks and enthusiastic shoulder-claps as the game progresses. Gracious in victory, stoic in defeat, completely comfortable in his skin and glued to his horse with his magnificent legs.

Selfishly, he’s glad Henry doesn’t come to the games, because if he saw this side of his son, he might not have dismissed John’s merits quite so easily.

Alex is so distracted by watching John’s expert manoeuvring when he takes a penalty shot that he doesn’t notice the three people hopping down the bleachers from above until they’re sliding into seats beside him. He recognises them, vaguely, but these rich kids with their hard grey eyes and light blonde hair all blend together eventually. They all look as though they might just have stepped off the ski slopes somewhere in the Alps, rosy and tanned, and they’re so alike he wonders absently if their WASP moms all had affairs with the same Swiss ski instructor.

“Alex, right? You’re here with John?” It’s the girl that addresses him, smiling too brightly for it to be truly friendly. Her eyes perform that critical, perfunctory once-over of his appearance that, by now, Alex has forced himself to get used to.

Alex narrows his eyes and looks back over the field, searching for John amid the mud and the chilly mist of drizzle. He nods curtly and, while he’s not looking, he feels her exchange glances with the two boys on his other side.

“Do you play?” she asks, folding her arms over her knees and leaning forwards to crowd into his eyeline. He wonders if he’s being too cynical, assuming they’re here to laugh at him behind his back. He throws her a searching glance, then looks fixedly back at the pitch. 

“Nah, just here to watch John play,” he responds, and this time he tries to keep the tension and suspicion out of his voice.

One of the boys on his other side leans in eagerly. “Oh, and what about lacrosse?”

Alex shakes his head, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek as he follows John’s horse down to the far end of the pitch. He has the distinct impression that they’re mocking him, but he can’t pin down what exactly the joke is. 

Still, most of the kids in his class acted like this until he made a conscious effort to warm them up to him. “I’m from Queens,” he says with an easy grin, “Ask me about basketball or the Mets.”

“What, you don’t play any proper sports?” the boy nearest him asks, a touch of snide disbelief colouring his tone.

Alex shoots him a hard look and returns his gaze to the pitch, drawing his arms around himself and ducking his head a little against the cold. He shouldn’t have wasted his breath. There are only about five minutes left until the final whistle, but already he’s doubting whether he’ll make it until then.

“Don’t be an asshole, Charlie,” the girl scolds, but there’s too much amusement in her voice for Alex to really believe her sincerity. “He’s from _New York._ They don’t play those up there, do they?”

Alex has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying something rash and ignores the hint of sly mocking in her tone. He folds his arms and wedges his hands tight in the insubstantial warmth his coat provides, gives a nonchalant shrug.

“Not enough space. Horses need all that open air, right?”

She shrugs, glancing surreptitiously at her friend and opening her mouth to respond. 

Her friend, the one called Charlie, beats her to it. “They have winter, though,” he snickers. “You think he’d at least have a proper coat.”

“Wonder why his new daddy didn’t get him one,” the other boy says. 

Alex turns now to glare at the kid beside him. He’s lanky and blond, fixing Alex with an unpleasant smile and showing eerily perfect teeth. His pulse is racing faster now — he’s up here alone with these kids, and something in the boys’ tone cuts deeper and meaner than something meant in jest. The girl hits her friend playfully on the shoulder, admonishing him feebly through fits of laughter.

“Do you have something you want to say to me?” Alex growls. “Or are you going to piss off and leave me alone?”

The boy, and Alex wonders if he’s the same Charlie that John mentioned hitting in the face with his polo mallet, grins nastily. “Hey, no need to get upset, we were all just thinking you looked kinda cold up here all alone. Then we wondered why any kid Senator Laurens took in would be sitting in the rain in only a jacket from Walmart.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Alex snarls, making to stand up only for one of the boys to grab his arm and tug him roughly back down into his seat. He’s tense as a bowstring where he sits, crowded in on all sides and held in place by unfriendly hands.

“No, no, we’re genuinely curious,” the boy laughs, and exchanges an amused glance with the girl, who watches avidly with her arms crossed around her knees. “Are the Laurenses keeping you around because it looks good in the magazines? Or is the Senator just cheap enough to want the free help?”

Alex jerks his arm out of the boy’s hold, his heart hammering. They’re watching him like sharks, their grins expectant and gleeful. He realises that they’re waiting for him to really lose his temper - that this is just a fucking game to them. A way to pass the last few boring minutes of a polo match.

He tries to swallow his anger. He doesn’t want them to win.

The girl laughs meanly, and her grin has lost all pretence of politeness now. “Yeah, Cinderella here _would_ fit in better with the staff.”

“I’m sure you think you’re too good for the staff though, right, Alex? Now that you’ve weasled your way into a decent family?”

“Then again, they’re all half breeds there, aren’t they?” Charlie muses.

Alex can just about take the insults aimed at him, but it’s too much to bring the other kids into it. “Do you not have _anything_ better to do?” he spits, spinning to glare at the boy that grabbed him and clenching his fists.

“We just came over here to introduce ourselves,” he says with wide eyes. “We were _trying_ to be polite.”

“Careful,” Charlie says to his friend with fake concern, “Don’t get him all worked up. You wouldn’t want to get knifed.”

God, Alex wants to swing at him. His face is burning and - all alone in his sodden grey coat, facing these three immaculate, well-wrapped-up, smirking rich kids — he’s flushed with a hot mixture of shame and indignation and fury.

“Oh yeah? Well then, you’d better stay the fuck away from me,” he growls, and the bona fide threat in his voice is enough to make the girl and the first boy glance at each other in apprehension. 

Charlie remains unperturbed, but the ugly mocking smirk on his face drops into a cold, steely look of real menace. He steps forward, and Alex stands up to meet him head on. His eyes don’t leave Alex’s for a second, and this close the difference in their heights is even more pronounced. Alex refuses to back down; he’s faced enough confrontational assholes in group homes to know when to call somebody’s bluff. They’re standing on the bleachers at a polo game, with other kids and adults around; Charlie is all bark, all false bravado. 

“Is that a threat?” Charlie asks cooly, and his gaze flits mockingly along Alex’s slightly disheveled appearance.

Alex laughs nastily. “I’m saying I don’t want three insecure assholes with about half a brain cell between them wasting my time.”

The other boy steps forward now - he’s shorter but considerably stockier than his friend - and crowds in on Alex’s other side, leering down at him with a look of contemptuous disgust.

“I think someone needs to put this uppity little spic back in his place,” he sneers, and Charlie’s answering laugh is low and cruel. There’s genuine danger here all of a sudden, and though Alex wants to hold Charlie’s hard, challenging glare, he can’t help but glance towards the field for John. 

“Aww, he’s looking for his handler,” the girl scoffs. “Charlie, you should ask John how he can sleep at night, knowing he’s sharing a house with _this_.”

The pitch is empty now, save for a few last spectators milling in the far corner by the entrance to the locker rooms. Alex didn’t even hear the whistle go. John must be getting his horse settled in the stable, so can’t be far off--

“I’d be more afraid he’d pocket the silverware,” Charlie laughs. “And - actually I’m pretty sure he’s swiped John’s old boots, by the looks of them.”

Alex can see John’s familiar shape emerge from the barn and start walking back this way. Alex pushes Charlie hard in the chest, shoving shoulder-first past him and dodging the other two as he raises a middle finger in his wake. His heart is pounding as he jogs down the bleachers towards John. Even under the chilly drizzle and soaked nearly through, he’s burning with humiliation and anger.

Behind him, he can still hear three voices yelling and laughing after him, ringing through the evening air even as he splashes into the mud at the foot of the stands. John is waiting for him, but his eyes are fixed on the three figures silhouetted against the darkening sky above them, his brows knitted and his mouth set in a hard line.

“Alex, what--”

Alex doesn’t give John a chance to greet him or ask about the interaction he witnessed. He storms past him towards the parking lot, his head bowed against the rain and the shame. 

John catches up with him eventually. He’s still out of breath from the game and his face is glowing rosy pink under the damp, unruly curls matted to his forehead from the helmet. His eyes are wide and, standing at the driver’s door, he seems just about ready to question Alex on everything he just saw.

“For fuck’s sake, open the door, I’m freezing!” Alex hisses, glaring at John over the roof of the car and yanking ineffectually at the door handle. His foster brother obliges and Alex wrenches the door open, getting in and slamming it behind him.

He’s cried in front of John before, and he knows his foster brother would not hold it against him if he indulged again now, but he’s far too angry to give in to tears. He’s freezing down to his bones, humiliated and, most of all, furious at himself. What had he expected? To slide seamlessly into the way of life here, accompanying John to polo games and Henry to galas without so much as a snide comment or raised eyebrow?

He glares at his own reflection in the wing mirror and he can feel John’s gaze boring a hole in the side of his head.

“Alex, what was that?”

He turns sharply to glare at John. “That guy, Charlie — is he the guy you had a crush on?”

John looks taken aback and blushes, averting his gaze to the steering wheel. “Uh, yeah. I don’t see him as much since he didn’t make the team.”

Alex laughs humourlessly. “You’ve got shit taste, no offence.”

John looks pained as he reaches out to grip Alex’s shoulder, but the sudden touch makes him flinch. “Alex, what were they saying? I… I caught the end of it, and it didn’t sound good.”

Alex shakes his head. “They were only saying what everyone else is thinking whenever they see me with you. At least now I know.”

John leans over the console to grip his shoulders with both hands in a tight, steady grip. This close, he smells like rain and leather and sweat and earth, musky and calming. His expression has hardened and he tries to meet Alex’s evasive gaze, ducking his head to peer under the strands of wet hair that Alex is trying to hide behind.

“I’ll give them all hell for saying that shit to you. It’s _not_ true, Alex, you’re— you’re not just some charity case tagging along. You’re my _friend_. A better friend than any of those assholes.”

“Don’t. That will just make it worse.” Alex bites his lip. “And, well, they weren’t wrong about your dad. This _is_ a PR thing, _and_ a charity thing. No matter how much you want me here, that doesn’t change.”

John’s hand slides up his shoulder to grip the side of his face. It’s warm against Alex’s icy cheek and he has to swallow a sob at the unhesitating ease with which John rushes to comfort him.

“The people who care about that bullshit, who think that those things define you? Alex, they’re idiots. _I_ know better, _you_ know better… come on, now. You aren’t going to remember any of them by the end of next year, when we’re both off at university.”

Alex shrugs and keeps his eyes lowered, his brows furrowed. He isn’t even so bothered by the things those kids said to him; he’s heard it all before, and the veiled slurs and insults lose their potency after the fifth or sixth repetition. It’s that he couldn’t fight back. He has to pick his battles here, instead of rushing headlong into proving these assholes wrong. He can’t be Henry’s protege if he loses his cool every time someone stupid says something mean. But playing the long game - absorbing the insults and going on to spite the people that hurled them - is nowhere near as instantly gratifying as punching a smug rich kid in the face.

Still, he raises a hand to touch John’s where it cups his face, and intertwines their fingers gently. “I just wish… I wish I didn’t have to justify my own fucking _exsitence_ before I can even get people to listen to a word of what I really want to say. How can I even _start_ getting to where I want to be if I’m fighting just to prove I’m a fucking human being?”

John smiles gently and rubs his thumb along Alex’s cheekbone. “It’s not always going to be like this. I know people are going to be blown away by you, the moment they actually decide to listen. And they will. These kids are idiots. People in D.C. will be so much more open minded.”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek and looks up to meet John’s eyes. Seeing that bright look of hope and reassurance there makes Alex believe his foster brother, at least a little. He nods and gives a watery smile of his own, and uncurls his fingers from John’s.

John’s eyes flicker out across the parking lot, and he takes his hand away quickly too.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says eventually, sitting back and wiping his face roughly with one hand. “It’s not even a big deal. I think I’m just tired or something.”

John shrugs. “Watching me play must be _exhausting_ ,” he teases. “You should get an early night.”

Alex grins and pushes some damp hair from his eyes as John starts the car. “Oh shut up, I sat in those bleachers for like two hours, _in the rain_.”

John shoots him a wry smile. “And yet you keep coming, huh? Are you hankering to take it up yourself?”

After today, Alex is seriously reconsidering his devotion to this routine, but there’s something slightly smug, an uncharacteristic touch of confidence in John’s tone, that stops him from voicing his reservations. John must surely have an inkling of why Alex keeps coming to watch him in his element. He doesn't want to take that away from his foster brother - the one time John gets to show off for him.

So he scoffs instead and leans back in his seat. “I just need to get out of that house. Anyway, I guess I’m coming around to it. I think I’ve learnt the rules, so I may as well keep coming now.”

John rolls his eyes and reaches over to ruffle Alex’s hair. “I’ll make a real aficionado out of you yet,” he grins. Alex shrugs, and chooses not to tell his foster brother that it has a lot more to do with his knee-high boots and his brazen self-assurance on the pitch. They drive in comfortable silence and eventually Alex stops shivering as the warmth of the car heater works its way through several layers of sodden clothing. 

Today, of all days, he wishes they didn’t have to go back to the house, full of silence and tension, back under Henry's thumb. He wants to tell John to keep driving, doesn’t matter where, to go and go until all of this is far behind them - but that’s a stupid, childish fantasy. So he smirks and reaches to the back of John’s head to tug at his curls and tickle him, but really it’s an excuse to touch so that he can chase away the last vestiges of his unsettled mood. 

These car rides are only brief, transient moments between the cold taunts on the bleachers and the stifling, tense formality awaiting them at home, so Alex savours the easy warmth they can find here. He should store the sensation away for later, when his restless mind will hum like a live wire and the only options are to come apart under the hot spray in the shower thinking of Henry, or try to soothe himself to sleep with his face pressed into the green scarf.


	13. Chapter 13

Alex wishes he had the presence of mind to savour the privilege of being invited to sit at Henry’s massive desk. He has spent plenty of time in Henry’s study, seated on the floor at Henry’s feet during the occasional chess game, or standing to attention while Henry reviews his report card or rips into John for the latest misdemeanour that he has discovered. But to sit, as an equal, at this desk? That’s not something he’s experienced before.

But he’s too restless to enjoy it, practically humming with nervous energy. His baseline state is bad enough these days, but to be in Henry’s presence again, alone, is flushing him with adrenaline.

Henry had departed for another session of congress in D.C. a day after the encounter in the library, so this is the first time Alex has been alone with him since he had the congressman’s hands sliding up the back of his shirt and along the inseam of his pants. 

He feels himself flushing hot around his collar at the recollection - of Henry tormenting him with his dark, weighty look as Alex sat helplessly in the man’s lap and allowed himself to be fondled. He’s dreamt about it, too - all the heated permutations of how the night could have gone - and he wakes up from those dreams achingly hard or, somehow more humiliating, with a damp, sticky mess between his legs.

He runs his fingers across the soft velvet arm of his chair and draws his eyes across the sleek, gleaming lines of the bookcases from one length of the wall to the next. He’d love to be in here alone, sprawled backwards on that plush leather sofa beside the window and basking in the sacred air that Henry inhabits so mysteriously.

To breathe in the smell of leather and power and influence and--

"Alexander, are you listening to me?"

His gaze snaps back to Henry, who is seated across from him at the desk. His head is framed by two towering bookcases to either side and a tall window behind him. If Alex squints, he can see the slightly denser black of the ghostly moss-draped oak trees against the darkening horizon beyond. 

He's losing focus again.

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry - _sir_."

He tacks on the final word as an afterthought, unable to keep his voice from pitching a little lower on the honorific. He _still_ hasn't gotten used to these formalities. He’s also aware that saying it like this, placing a subtle emphasis on the word just to draw attention to the fact that he’s saying it… it helps. He’s seen Henry’s eyebrow lift or a muscle in his jaw twitch at the word before.

Henry hums and glances back down at the page in front of him, releasing Alex momentarily from his intense scrutiny. Henry is reviewing his application to Georgetown University, a document he's been finessing for the better part of a month. Alex would never say it in such bold words to Henry, but he's fucking proud of it.

Henry flips over to the next page, and the way his fingers run over the paper seems intentional. Almost like a caress. Like the paper he’s worked so hard on is a proxy for his own skin--

Shit. _Focus, Alex._

"As I was saying, I don't feel the work experience at," Henry sneers, showing a bright gleam of teeth, "What was it now - ah, _Taco Bell_ \- is really a necessary addition."

Alex grits his teeth, feeling his face heat slightly at the derision in Henry's tone. He is, after all, trying to impress his foster father. That hellhole was his first job; he’d worked there for ten months and hated every second of it - but the money he made had paid for textbooks and for application fees to college-level classes. And it isn’t as though he spent the entire time wrapping burritos. By the end of the ten months he was substitute shift manager. He’s proud of every damn hour he worked there.

But he should know by now that fast food workers don’t inspire the respect of anyone in Henry’s world. People like that are usually beneath notice - and now, Alex _needs_ Henry to see him. There’s an odd pride in feeling as though he’s infiltrating this social class, that someone who used to wrap takeout orders is shoving this fact under the nose of a US Senator and demanding it to be examined.

He tries to sound grown up and confident when he says, "Actually, the entry guidelines pamphlet said they were interested in seeing a record of any previous employment."

Henry looks up at him and smiles indulgently. The expression would be paternalistic if there wasn’t a dark edge to it. "That very well may be the case for _scholarship_ applicants, Alexander. But not for you. I'm crossing it out." 

Henry adjusts the pen in his hand and strikes through the text with a flourish. A casual little gesture that erases almost a year of Alex’s life like it’s nothing. 

Alex also doesn't miss the derisive inflection Henry gives to the word ‘scholarship’, and swallows a sharp retort reminding him that in any other scenario, that's exactly what Alex would be applying for. It's not something Henry would consider a point of pride. And - god - he wants Henry to take note of him.

Alex should have left that mindset behind by now. But the way people like Henry think is still so foreign to him. He still has so much to learn about this world. What counts for good behaviour. What traits are valued. How to show your talents - striking the perfect balance of arrogance and self-assurance without sounding too proud - and play with influence in a way that won’t get you used up and discarded yourself. 

"All right," he says grudgingly, and draws a line through the section on his own copy with a frown. One less achievement on the list. The wealthy don't care about quantity, he thinks bitterly. Alex would prefer to throw whatever he can at the admissions department and see what sticks, while Henry is insisting on curating an image of relaxed assuredness. You don’t grovel on your knees to be given a place if you’re Henry Laurens’ son. You _expect_ one.

Some of the behavioral sanctions have been carefully erased - Henry’s doing, of course. John likes to solve problems with his fists, and Alex has a bad habit of letting his mouth run away with him. Like when his civics teacher didn’t take kindly to being called a self-important asshole when he’d made a subtle jibe at the ‘unfortunate limits of Alexander’s upbringing’, or when some idiot kids at school had started mocking him in an exaggerated Jamaican accent and he’d unleashed a torrent of vile Creole curses back at them. Henry had yelled at him about those right here in this office, then picked up the phone to the principal and made the records go away.

Henry made sure to mention more than once that Alex didn’t deserve to have these sanctions erased for his own sake; someone associated with the Laurens family couldn’t retain such a reputation going into Georgetown. 

"Now _this_ is quite the list, Alexander," Henry says, and though his head is bowed over the paper and Alex can't see his face very well, he thinks he can hear a smile in his foster father's voice. He is looking at the rubric for extracurricular academic achievements: Alex’s captaincy of the school debate team, impressive list of prizes for various essay-writing competitions, model UN, his SAT scores - the list reeks of smug self-satisfaction. “Very good.”

Alex can’t help but glow with pride and try to hold back an answering grin of his own. Henry looks up just as he is hitching an expression of pensive consideration onto his face.

Their eyes meet for a second. Alex battles with this - half of him wants to face Henry defiantly as an equal, but the other half feels an instinctive desire to cower and defer. That evening with the congressman flashes back to him and he feels the heat in his face begin to spread downwards. He swallows thickly and somehow manages to hold Henry’s gaze. 

"Thank you," he says, in as level a voice as he can manage. Then deference wins out and he averts his eyes to the table between them to avoid that piercing black stare - and the submission doesn’t feel entirely like weakness. There is value to be gained from being at Henry’s feet. From being useful. 

But looking down is a mistake. His gaze falls back onto those hands, one holding a silver fountain pen between careful fingers, the other resting on the varnished desktop. Broad, powerful, with thick fingers and an instant evocation of competence, ease and strength. On the left, a smooth gold band that catches the warm light of the study. These aren’t the insistent, shudder-inducing hands of the congressman that prodded and gripped at him. They’re powerful and assured.

Commanding hands. Hands to be commanded _by._ Fuck, he wants--

He blinks, and suddenly feels the unsettling, irrational fear that Henry knows exactly what he’s thinking - or that his shameful desire is just that pathetically easy to read.

Shit. Henry is speaking, and he’s zoned out again.

"--had hoped Jack would pursue the law, but he was always too unfocused a boy. Your ambition is refreshing. Continue like this, and I see great things in your future, Alexander."

Alex feels a rush of glee at these words, tempered with a little guilt because they come at John’s expense, and suppresses his broad smile by clutching hard at his knee under the desk. From the way Henry's lips twitch slightly, he's certain his pleasure at this remark doesn't go unnoticed.

It’s certainly not the first time Henry has spoken of him more favourably than John - but usually John is in the room to hear it because the comment is meant to be an oblique jab at him. But this is unvarnished praise, just for Alex’s ears. That feels significant. 

"Well,” Alex says, licking his dry lips. “I think I've always had an interest in it. It's been such a large part of my life."

“And what direction do you plan to take your career in?”

“There are lots of options in the legal field - but, to be honest, sir, I was hoping to go into public service. Follow in your footsteps.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Alex says, nodding seriously and delivering his rehearsed answer. “The way I see it, going into legal practice means that you just end up enforcing the laws that someone else makes, right? Working in the legislature means you actually get to _shape_ those laws. That just seems much more influential to me.”

“That’s very insightful, Alexander.” Henry nods thoughtfully and gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders in that dark green polo shirt that he hasn't buttoned up to the throat - the most casual Alex ever sees him. He still can’t help his surprise on the occasional weekend when he sees Henry in anything but a suit, and he doubts this reaction will ever truly dissipate. He spots it in John’s eyes too, but it’s something more there - perhaps a wish that his father’s grandest display of informality was a little more than just a polo shirt and chinos.

"Well, I think _this_ application is cause to celebrate,” Henry murmurs almost to himself, and then says, a little louder, “You'll certainly be accepted."

Alex doesn't suppress his grin at these words and follows his foster father's movements towards the cabinet by the window with wide, eager eyes.

"You think so?"

Henry scoffs as he opens the cabinet, his face vanishing as he slips into the shadow cast by the door. Alex takes the brief moment of privacy to run a slightly trembling hand over his forehead and through his hair. 

_Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake, Alex._

"Of course," Henry says lightly, straightening up, now with a bottle in his hand. "There is no doubt about it."

Alex watches the bottle as Henry sets it down on the desk. In his other hand are two crystal tumblers that scatter silver light as he moves. The hand is broad enough to hold both glasses comfortably. Alex can’t help measuring out what else might fit within that grip. 

"I would never condone this outside my presence, Alexander. However, considering your exemplary application..."

Henry twists open the cap of the bottle - Alex can now read the label as some unpronounceable Irish whiskey - and pours a splash into the glass nearest Alex.

He looks up at his foster father in disbelief. This seems incredibly far out of the realm of what he thought he knew about Henry, who is almost puritanical about cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, if the vicious scolding Alex had endured when Henry had found John’s weed is any indication. Henry drinks with guests - the other Senator for South Carolina, members of the golf club he plays at, the principal of John and Alex's private school. But certainly not with Alex, and not even with John.

It’s almost too good to be true. 

"Are you-- Really?"

Henry pours himself a slightly more generous glass and recaps the whiskey.

"You're a young man now, so I think I can allow some supervised celebration," Henry says, watching him with that cool, unreadable stare.

Alex picks up the glass hesitantly and takes a sip. It’s sharp and bitter - but it’s good, infinitely better than the off-brand booze he’s able to get his hands on. It’s not as though he’s never drank before; aside from the vodka Alex managed to sneak in a few months ago, even strait-laced John buys beer off the kids at school sometimes, and Alex has moved through too many seedy parts of New York not to stumble on bodegas that will sell anything to anyone, and friendly kids that hang out on park benches with hard liquor in coke cans. Still, those dusty summer evenings in Queens are a far cry from sitting at the desk of a US Senator in South Carolina.

Henry clears his throat, a chiding smile on his face. “Alexander,” he says, his voice a low, even baritone. “You’re being rude. You should wait for me to make a toast first.”

Alex blanches. For a second, he considers spitting the mouthful back into his glass - but even he knows that would be far more rude. 

Henry laughs at his discomfort. “Come, on your feet, boy.” 

Alex jumps up without thinking. He’s never been this quick to obey instructions from anyone else in his life.

Henry raises his glass. “To your achievements, Alexander, and to many more. I hope you will make me proud.”

“I hope so, sir,” he says, and means it. But he can’t help but feel as though Henry is trying to tell him something _more_ with this gesture. As far as Alex knows, he hasn’t done this with John, whose application he reviewed earlier, so what does it say about how his foster father views him? As more mature, more deserving of praise? Or is he merely less worthy of sheltering? Since he’s already damaged, why observe the same protective codes of conduct applied so stringently to the actual Laurens children?

“Now, have you looked at the course options for your majors?” Henry asks, sitting down, and suddenly the conversation is all business again.

Alex nods, putting down his glass quickly and chewing on his lip as he considers which classes Henry would be most impressed by his interest in. He racks his brain for the course lists he’d studied last night in preparation for this conversation, poring over at least a dozen handbooks well into the early hours of the morning.

“Uh-- I liked the look of the public policy courses they have for undergrads…” 

Henry waves a dismissive hand and Alex realises he has said something wrong.

“Nonsense. You can learn that from a textbook - or from interning in my office over the summer. Focus on subjects that will give you a better sense of the mechanics of how the world operates.”

Henry must see the visible straightening of Alex’s posture at this idle suggestion, though he chooses to ignore it.

“Um…” Alex chews the inside of his cheek. He takes another stab. “Economics?”

Henry hums thoughtfully. “Better. Your math grades are up to scratch.”

Alex nods seriously, pretending that he’s guiding this conversation rather than stumbling blindly through it. He should have run his choices past John, considering that his foster brother is an encyclopedia of Henry's opinions. He tries to summon John’s voice in his mind - _not languages, dad thinks that’s a waste of time. Um, I dunno - he would say sociology’s a soft option--’_

“And I was thinking about rhetoric?” 

Henry almost smiles at that one. Alex must have struck gold. 

“Ah. You remind me of myself in my college days - sharpening the skills that would come in most useful to a career like mine. And, of course, your debate history, not to mention our little conversations, show you have the potential to succeed. Jack could never defend an argument like you can.”

Fuck, it’s almost too much to be compared to Henry himself. Alex feels another rush of that confusing guilty pride, though the pride takes a significant forefront this time. He’ll have to make it up to John later.

Alex can’t keep his seat anymore. He grips the glass in his hand, which is suddenly a little clammy, and steps over to the bookshelf. Perhaps there are more clues here to what Henry wants him to say? 

His eyes hit on a photo - two rows of young men lined up for a formal shot. It’s in a neat black frame, and the caption below it gives a year that must have been around the time Henry was in school. Alex looks at it curiously, and he spots Henry almost right away, seated right in the middle of the front row. There’s almost nothing of John in him, partly because of the steely, determined and infinitely confident look in his eye. And - shit. Henry was attractive then, but perhaps a little softer. There’s a hardness about him now that has only increased his appeal.

He can feel Henry’s eyes boring into his back. Shit. He needs to say something. How long has he been standing here, staring at this photograph?

“I must say,” Henry says. “All this talk of college is making me feel nostalgic.”

Alex sighs in relief and turns back to face him “Is that,” he gestures at the photograph, “You at Georgetown?”

“Bring that over here,” Henry instructs. 

Alex picks up the frame; there’s not a speck of dust to outline where it stood. 

He carries it over to Henry, who takes it from him - and there’s just the barest brush of their hands. Quick enough to be deniable. Accidental. Henry looks at the picture with fondness, but Alex can’t pull his gaze from his face. His heartbeat is thudding in his ears.

“Oh, to be a young man again,” Henry muses, and looks up at Alex.

Alex suddenly realises he’s standing close - really close - and the air thickens instantly around them. 

Henry puts the photograph down carefully on his desk.

Alex realises that, if he lowered himself just a foot, he would be completely level with Henry’s face. 

Henry’s eyes, which are still locked on him. 

Henry’s mouth. 

A sudden, insane, ridiculous, brilliant idea forms in his mind. 

He can’t be imagining this tension. He knows he’s felt it before - at their chess games, across the dimly lit library with another man’s hand on his cock but his gaze caught in Henry’s. His breath catches in his throat, and before he can allow himself to give it a second thought, Alex drops onto the arm of Henry's chair and presses his lips hard to Henry's mouth.

Fuck! 

He hears Henry’s surprised inhale, and for a gleaming, sparkling second, Alex presses his mouth forward and tastes bitter whiskey on Henry’s lips. Then there's a hand on his hip - oh god! - and he must be losing his mind - he can't actually be--

Henry pushes him away, a firm pressure on his abdomen that dislodges him from his perch and back onto unsteady feet. 

Alex's head is spinning like he might faint, and although he may be a lightweight, he knows it isn’t the liquor fuelling this.

Henry's mouth is slightly open and his eyes have darkened to a thunderous rage. One hand is wrapped so tightly around the arm of his chair that Alex wouldn’t be surprised if the wood splintered within that iron grip.

But then, in the infinite stretch of silence that falls between them, Alex stares into those eyes and reconsiders. _Is_ that rage? It's murky and electric, with all the trappings of one of Henry's rare, truly thunderous furies, but something shifting underneath the dark clouds is different, is--

"None of that, Alexander." 

The look is gone as quickly as it appears, and now the stern, disapproving look of an overly indulgent father returns to those steely eyes. A familiar, haughty expression. 

"God, I'm so sorry, I--"

Alex wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and winces, fighting the urge to sink his teeth deep into his knuckles. He wants to drop to his knees. He wants to beg for forgiveness, to rest his face on the broad plane of that powerful thigh and get all this tension wrung from his body, to be corrected and reshaped by Henry’s hands.

 _This_ is why he needs Henry’s guidance. To knock impulsive, destructive ideas like this out of him. To teach him to calculate, strategise, plan.

But - shit. What about his endless, careful work to gain Henry’s mentorship? What if he’s messed all of it up now? What if Henry reconsiders keeping him around? He doesn’t know how he’d explain _this_ one to his case worker.

But Henry is calmly stacking the many pages of Alex's application form into a neat pile, his eyes averted from where his foster son stands trembling, still within arm's reach.

"It's quite alright," Henry says, and Alex wonders if he's imagining the way those words catch slightly in his throat as he speaks them. "Perhaps I assumed too much of you. You're very young, Alexander, to be expected to hold your liquor."

Henry shakes his head fondly and stands up. The contrast between his calm, assured posture and Alex's dishevelled one could not be more stark. But Alex realises, without knowing why, that Henry is giving him an out here - because there’s no way he really thinks Alex has gotten drunk off the few sips of whiskey he’s had; his glass isn’t even empty. 

"I should go," Alex manages, through a constricted throat. "To bed."

Henry hums noncommittally, no longer paying much attention to him. With the application tucked safely away in his desk drawer, Henry turns his back and goes to stand at the window. Alex peers into the glass to catch a reflection of his face, but the night has grown too dark and all he can make out is the familiar silhouette. He’s seen the last of Henry tonight.

"Good night, Alexander."

He mumbles his own response and stumbles to the door, slipping gracelessly out of the study and into the warmer, brighter corridor outside - but that just makes him feel even more exposed.

***

Alex retreats to the very corner of his room, pushing himself into the crevice between the foot of his bed and the wall. He realises that he dislikes this bedroom in a different way to how he has detested the ones in other foster homes. It’s too large, with ceilings that stretch up into the darkness, and he feels ridiculous lying in bed with so much space in every direction. Sometimes it feels haunted by the telltale remnants of a child - long gone - that have not all been entirely expunged. He misses the comfort of being gently weighed in upon by a narrow, cramped space, like lying under a heavy duvet.

It’s a comfort he could do with now. But the best he can do is pull out the green scarf John gave him and press his face into the soft fabric. He groans into his hands and bites back a disbelieving, maniacal laugh, shaking his head slowly in a sort of mortified agony. 

How can his attitude towards this place, to Henry, have changed so drastically in what feels like such a short stretch of time?

When he arrived at this obscenely decadent house ten months ago, he’s certain the disdain had practically radiated off him. He’d dismissed John’s anxious recommendation that _you should really call him ‘sir’_ with a derisive laugh, and had pointedly addressed Henry with a recalcitrant ‘you’ for months. But this evening, he’d sat reverently at the Senator’s desk and stared at his hands and lips with enough heated intensity to make himself blush just to think of it again. 

In allowing himself to settle in, has he lost something of himself? Softened in some way? One-year-ago Alex would have sneered at someone like him. Or is it that he’s actually outgrown his childish disdain? He doesn’t feel any less tough or capable, so maybe it’s just his priorities and the way he directs his energy that have changed.

He wants, he realises, for Henry to take him _seriously._ To treat him like a grown-up, not just some helpless kid he scraped off the street. He isn’t used to being sheltered, and yet his foster father is determined that Alex settle into the quiet, deferential role of the studious politician’s son, who keeps (ot at least appears to keep) out of trouble and weaves his way carefully into the tapestry of the Senator’s idyllic, familial life. Alex wants to scream that he can handle so much more, that he has been making plans for himself, fending for himself, since he was twelve years old. 

He desperately needs Henry to recognise that, although he’s just a teenager, Alex knows _exactly_ what he wants.

He won’t ever be what Henry needs from John, won’t even be what John is now - despite being imperfect, untempered, lacking in ambition, he’s still Henry’s _real_ son. And no matter how perfect Alex makes himself, he can never become a Laurens himself - but maybe he can still show Henry that he is useful despite that. 

No, fuck that - Henry _knows_ he can be useful. Who else but Alex would allow a stranger three times his age to put a hand on his dick, just so a bill can pass in congress? Henry can’t be under any allusions as to how far Alex will go to achieve his goals, and surely he sees that Alex’s talents extend far beyond being a piece of bait.

But right now, Alex is still too frazzled to think this through. If he’s learnt anything tonight, it’s that he needs to take more time before he jumps into his next action.

So he turns his attention to a book, but hardly absorbs more than the first few lines. It isn’t long before he’s replaying his encounter with Henry over and over in his head like an endlessly stuck and looping tape. 

There’s a soft knock at his door, and he almost misses it amid the whirling rush of noise in his brain. He looks up quickly. It’s late. His immediate thought is that Henry has come to scold him properly for what he’d dared to do. Extracting himself from his awkward position between the wall and his bed, he tucks the scarf out of sight underneath his duvet and gets quickly to his feet. He suspects another interaction with Henry tonight would tear him limb from limb. The scary thing is that he isn’t certain that would be a bad thing.

“Yeah?” he calls, and is relieved to hear his own voice at least brushing its usual slightly annoyed indifference. 

The door opens and John’s sheepish face peers at him from the dark corridor. Alex swallows his disappointment and instantly hates himself for the sudden, pathetic feeling of loss that he isn’t seeing Henry again. He tries to smile and sits down on his bed as John steps into his room, closing the door behind him.

“Hey. You were in there for _ages_. How did it go?”

Alex shrugs and moves up a little for John to sit down beside him, folds his arms around his knees and presses his chin into the sharp crevice between his kneecaps.

“Fine. He just made me trim it down a little.”

John’s lips twitch into a momentary frown and he gives a thin little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Dad was asking me if there was any way I could pad mine up.”

Alex shrugs, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. “It’s not your fault all your extracurricular stuff is in art and sport and he’s making you apply for pol-sci. I can help you find ways to word things that will make them sound more relevant, if you like?”

John’s grateful smile would usually send a rush of fondness through Alex, but tonight he can hardly suppress a grimace. He looks away and scans his bedroom frantically for anything else to talk about but Henry.

“So it looks like we’ll both be going to Georgetown,” John says flatly.

Alex marvels at John’s presumptiveness. A moment ago, he was fretting over his sparse application, and now he’s talking about Georgetown like a place there has been carved out for him nonetheless. Alex thinks, with a small internal laugh, that it was, since the moment John was born. 

“Yeah,” Alex turns to John and tries a genuine smile. It isn’t John’s fault he’s been guaranteed everything Alex has struggled for since birth. “It’s gonna be fun.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone who's celebrating!

Christmas is approaching. 

Since Alex has made a point of erasing sentimentality from his emotional vocabulary, it usually doesn’t mean much to him. Previous foster placements have gone one of two ways. Some overcompensated with the festivities, stifling Alex and only serving to remind him that all the tinsel and heavy food and platitudes mean absolutely nothing without a real family to celebrate with. In other homes, Christmas is hardly acknowledged. Someone would order a pizza and Alex would be left to curl up on the bottom of some bunk bed in a miserable dorm room, wishing he was with his mom.

This Christmas is bound to be like none he’s ever celebrated before. For one, it’s treated with formality and spectacle - decorations go up one day while he and John are at school, garlands and lights and an Advent wreath in the dining room that brings Alex back to the dimly lit churches of his childhood and the dark evenings of Christmas Eve mass.

But there’s also the uncomfortable realisation that he’s grown attached to his life here. John has called him ‘little brother’ enough times that Alex has stopped feeling weird about it, and there’s something about the lack of fuss that the others make over him that makes him feel strangely like he belongs. But attachments are just more baggage, and Alex doesn’t need anything other than his suitcase weighing him down when the time comes for him to leave again.

After his ill-advised and sloppy lunge at Henry, Alex withdraws a little and makes sure not to draw attention to himself - he holds his tongue at school, keeps out of John's silent war of attrition with his dad, shows up on time for meals and church. He wants to show that he _can_ behave, if he wants to - to make the point that when he doesn’t, it’s intentional. He hopes he's lulling Henry into a false sense of security, letting him lower his guard a little again. 

For his part, his foster father doesn't treat him any differently. They make polite conversation over breakfast, and play chess, and if he sometimes catches Henry studying him, it’s a dark and calculating look rather than anything inviting.

By early December, the escalating festive atmosphere starts to make Alex antsy. Their already-long, dull weekends are made even more idle as the kids’ activities stop for the holiday break, which means John is in constant demand as babysitter and doesn’t have as much time to spend with him. So Alex takes the rare moment of quiet one Saturday morning when the housekeeper takes the others to the promenade for ice cream - in, he suspects, a gesture of empathy for a tired John - and drapes himself over his foster brother on one of the couches in the sunroom.

He’s reading an old paperback of Antigone he found wedged between some heavy law volumes in the athenaeum. Ever since he took Henry’s suggestion of studying the classics to heart, the more he reads of Burke and Hume and all the legal philosophy he finds on Henry’s shelves, the more references to the classics he comes across. They used to go completely over his head, funny Greek words he’d have to google surreptitiously - which was an unpleasant, unfamiliar feeling - but now he feels like he’s glimpsing a deeper world, understanding allusions and allegories that he would previously not even have noticed.

John is sitting next to him, Alex’s legs draped over his thighs, drawing something with his head bowed low over the page. He’s good. Alex had flipped through his sketchbook once when he left it on the sofa and he’d been surprised - the carefully sketched hands looked real enough that they might reach off the page and grab you.

But this is his chance to get a bit more information about what’s coming up.

“So,” Alex says, putting down his book and stretching, casting an eye over the Christmas tree in the corner and the drawings of snowmen the two youngest Laurenses have stuck proudly to the window. “Any wacky Christmas traditions I should know about?”

John looks up with a distracted gaze and puts down his pen. “Uh— what counts as weird? I think it’s a pretty average American Christmas.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “You say that, but… Thanksgiving was a ride. I don’t think average means to you what it means to other people.”

John shrugs. “Okay, so - we’ll probably go see the lights next week, and there’s a Christmas fundraising gala the weekend before. We’re not hosting this year, so you and I will only have to go for an hour or so, take some photos, eat some canapes.”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Okay, I guess I should have seen that one coming. And church, I guess?”

John nods. “Yeah. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day morning. Morning one is a little more of a photo op, there’ll be people there and dad normally talks to a few reporters. But honestly Christmas week is fairly quiet.”

This sounds on par with what he expected, though the idea of two church services in less than twenty-four hours isn’t appealing.

“And gifts and stuff?”

John shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. The kids will make dad a card, and dad gets something for each of us. The rest of us are supposed to get something small for each other, but we all just go off and buy things we want and hand them out to the others to wrap and put under the tree. Except Polly, obviously. We can go next week if you want.”

“That feels like cheating,” Alex says skeptically.

“Well,” John shrugs, “Think of it as efficient. Less wasteful.”

“Since when are all of you concerned about waste?” Alex laughs.

John rolls his eyes. “Look, it’s just how we do things. Mom always handled the gifts and these days, we really don’t want to accidentally insult each other by getting the wrong thing.”

“Isn’t it the thought that counts, though?” Alex insists.

“Yeah, sure. The thought being - let’s all make our lives easier. Seriously, the last thing we need is more stress over the holidays.”

“Weird, but okay.” Alex picks up his book again. “Just don’t go off script and get me anything extra, okay?”

John looks down at his sketch, not meeting his eye. “Yeah. Whatever.”

“John?”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

\-----

They drive down to the local mall one day after school the next week to spend an hour trawling the shops for gifts for themselves. But of course - Alex realises at once - it’s not as simple as just getting what they _really_ want; the gifts need to be things that will look appropriate to Henry, nothing too personal or revealing. So that means John walks right past the art shop without even glancing in, and instead they pick out a few books - Alex gets himself a biography of Julius Caesar and a newly translated version of the _Iliad_ \- and then fill their quotas with practical knicknacks. 

The whole outing is over quickly and painlessly, and although Alex feels that he of all people should appreciate this ingenious approach, it doesn’t quite feel like enough to wrap up a gift for John that John just bought himself. So when they’re heading back to the car, Alex says he needs to run to the bathroom quickly, but instead makes his way to the art shop and grabs a little box of watercolour paints and a sketchbook made of special paper. He’s done extensive research, so he knows exactly what he needs to get. John has been spending a lot of time outside, sketching various plants from his mother’s garden, but he’s been limited to just plain pencil sketches. All the blogs Alex checked agreed that watercolours are the best choice for botanical illustrations, so that’s what he settled on. He makes the purchase quickly out of money in his secret savings account and stashes the gift in among the other things he’s bought.

\-----

John’s favourite part of the whole Christmas season is the annual trip the siblings take to the Charleston Festival of Lights in mid-December. 

It’s not because it’s an entirely happy occasion. The tradition originated from their mom, who loved the local botanical gardens and parks, and they have made a point to keep it up without her - so it means that the outing stirs up a lot of tender emotions, especially from the younger kids. But John still loves it, because it’s just about the only thing they all agree on and enjoy together; no tantrums, no eye-rolls, no snide comments.

They gather in the foyer just after their early dinner, all dressed neatly in festive sweaters - Martha bouncing Polly on her hip, Jemmy hopping restlessly around on the tiles like he’s playing hopscotch, and Harry standing stoically off to one side, looking somber and - for once - not staring at his phone. 

Then he spots Alex, studying them skeptically from the second step of the staircase that leads up to their rooms. He looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable, in a way that John hasn’t seen since his first few weeks here. 

He strolls over. “Hey, you ready to go?”

Alex shrugs and scrunches up his nose. “I dunno. Sort of feel like I’m crashing your party.”

John can’t help but smile at that - it’s such an Alex-thing to say. “Don’t be silly. You’re one of us, for better or worse.” Alex looks down and scuffs his heel. “But we _are_ leaving, so you have to make up your mind.”

Alex wavers for a long moment, then sighs. “Fine.”

“Awesome.” John gives him an encouraging smile, nods his head towards the others, then steps back over. “Okay, troops. Everyone ready?”

There’s a little chorus of affirmatives. He senses everyone taking a deep, tense breath, because they know what’s coming.

John plasters a smile on his face. “All right - huddle up.”

They draw together in a circle, hands reaching out to grip each other’s elbows or shoulders. Alex hovers uncertainly on the periphery again, so John draws him in between himself and Jemmy, putting a firm hand on his shoulder and feeling Alex’s touch hesitantly to his lower back.

“Now, you all know what mom would say.”

“Family is a greater treasure than all the gold in the world,” they chorus.

“That’s right,” John says, careful to keep any rawness out of his voice. “What makes us a family is not this house or dad’s money or any of that stuff. It’s the fact that we all love each other, no matter what, and that we always have each other’s backs.” He gives Alex’s shoulder a little squeeze to make it clear that he’s including him in this sentiment, and he feels Alex let out a quiet exhale. “It’s Christmas, and I know it’s still a difficult time for us,” he catches Martha’s eye and flashes her a wry smile, “But think of it this way - it only hurts because we care so deeply, and it’s a very special thing to have something that you care that much about. Okay?”

They all nod. John can feel the tension in Alex’s back, but he’s not showing whatever emotion he’s feeling, so John allows him his privacy. 

“Now, it’s Alex’s first time, so he’s riding shotgun.”

Jemmy groans loudly. “It was my turn!” But John shoots him a challenging look, and Jemmy turns and gives Alex a big smile. “It’s fine though, you’re gonna love it. Come on!” And he grabs Alex’s hand, dragging him out of the door - Alex stumbles along after him, laughing unsurely.

They others start to file out.

“Harry, a second?” John says quietly.

“Yeah?” Harry stops and turns, and the brave expression John thought he glimpsed earlier tells him everything he needs to know. He waits until everyone else has stepped outside, then walks up close and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“I know,” he whispers, and pulls him into a hug. 

Harry hesitates, then tightens his arms around him and nods silently into his shoulder. John holds him a minute, then gives him a quick, firm squeeze and lets go.

“Range Rover, I think, with so many of us?” John asks lightly.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Higher up, too, so it’s easier to see.”

“Smart.” John cuffs his shoulder lightly and grabs the key off the hanger. “Let’s go.”

\-----

They have a well-honed routine. John drives, so he gets to choose the music - nice modern covers of Christmas songs, nothing too cheesy. Jemmy and Harry argue about which part of the light show is the best, while Martha first argues that they should just get tickets at the gate, but then changes her own mind and whips out her phone to buy them online, muttering about the poor reception. Polly’s still a bit too small to really know where they’re going, but she stares out of the window at the passing streetlights and seems perfectly content; which is fine, because she’s usually sound asleep well before the half-way mark.

Alex adds a new dynamic, sitting half-curled up on the front seat and staring silently out of the front window at the intricate artworks made from Christmas lights. John figured he’d be left alone in the front seat and that it would be easier for him to process whatever he’s feeling in private, and he sees now that he’s right. He’s never quite seen Alex this sombre before. 

He’s become familiar with the ragged wounds Alex is carrying from his mom’s passing and all the stuff he’s been through since then, but it’s hard for John to help without knowing the exact tenor of Alex’s emotions - is he feeling nostalgic about similar trips with his own family, or bitter and angry that he never got the chance? It’s impossible to tell.

Whatever it is, he knows Alex won’t want to talk about it, and certainly not in front of the others.

So he changes tack. “One of the better Charleston Christmas traditions, huh?”

Alex looks up, startled out of his reverie. He smiles, though it’s a little forced. “Yeah, I guess it’s not as lame as I thought. And at least I’m not freezing my balls off, like in New York.”

Behind them, wedged between Martha and Jemmy, Harry chuckles quietly. “He said balls.”

John gives him a stern look in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow cocked playfully. “Neither of you can say balls, got it?”

Alex laughs, a genuine, surprised sound, and Martha reaches over to smack John on the side of the head. Jemmy is laughing raucously and even Martha has a grin on her face, bouncing a smiling Polly on her knee. 

“I’m a bad influence,” Alex mutters, though he’s still smiling slightly, watching John in the wing mirror.

John rolls his eyes and reaches over to ruffle Alex’s hair. “These kids need to let loose sometimes. Okay, guys - what are you most excited for? Harry?”

Harry grumbles at being picked on and gives a tight little shrug. “Sweet potato pie.”

John laughs. “Okay, Jemmy?”

They go around, and John watches Alex pretending not to listen, his cheek pressed against the cool window. John turns on the radio to cut through some of the slightly more awkward stretches of silence and, in the back, Jemmy sings along to the carols tunelessly while Martha rocks Polly in time.

Despite pretending to be the world’s biggest cynic, Alex softens over the course of their excursion and gazes out at the festive lights with an intent expression. When John glances over at him, he sees the hardness has melted out of the corner of Alex’s mouth and the set of his brow. John allows his gaze to linger for a moment, appreciating the dancing lights sparkling in Alex’s eyes, and the pretty multi-coloured sheen reflected in his dark hair. John also sees the little touch of sadness peeking through now that the bored frown has melted away, and he feels a warm, gentle pang in his chest. He’d like to reach out and take Alex’s hand in his, to give it a silent, reassuring squeeze, but that seems like it would be crossing one of the lines that he has drawn for himself. 

_Be his brother,_ he reminds himself, _and leave it at that._

But John can’t quite help the soft smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth at the childlike look of wonder on Alex’s face, which he is trying instinctively to hide behind a raised knee and a hunched shoulder. Alex wears his brash mask effortlessly, but there’s something much more appealing about this vulnerable side showing through from behind it.

He flicks his eyes back to the road for a moment and catches Martha studying him in the rearview mirror. She narrows her eyes at him significantly and John immediately looks away, flushing red. 

He knows Martha can read him like an open book - communicating silently a skill they’ve honed over the years of treading lightly around mom, then dad and the kids. So he knows what her look means. _Don’t go there. Keep your guard up_.

It’s fine, John tells himself. Whatever she saw, she’ll keep to herself - and more importantly, Alex didn’t notice him staring. He just needs to get a better hold of himself. No more slip-ups.

\-----

Alex wakes up on Christmas morning buzzing with nerves, but it’s not because he’s excited to run downstairs and open presents. Quite the opposite. He doesn’t like people giving him stuff he hasn’t earned and expecting gratitude in return; it feels too much like he’s in their debt without having a means to repay it. There’s no doubt that the Laurens kids get expensive gifts from their father - chosen, bought and wrapped, of course, by Henry’s assistant - and the only two possibilities are that he’s going to get something expensive too, which will be awkward, or that he’ll get something cheap and thoughtless, which will be possibly even more humiliating.

His mind wanders to the gift he got for John - it’s wrapped up neatly in his drawer now, tucked next to the green scarf, and Alex plans to find a time later in the day to bring John back here and give it to him in private. It’s not the sort of thing that can go under the tree, and anyway it’s personal - a show of Alex’s gratitude for a year of kindness, friendship and support.

He isn’t expecting a soft knock on his door. 

“Yeah?”

John slips in quickly, also still in his pyjamas, and right away Alex notices he’s holding a gift bag. His heart starts to thud. He was sort-of expecting it after John’s little show of nonchalance on the couch, but he doesn’t like this one bit. It’s a big gift. Probably expensive. Thank god he got something for John in return - though there’s no way his silly little present can match up to that.

“Please don’t get mad!” John says right away, the look on his face sheepish and nervous. 

Alex covers his face with his hands to hide his embarrassed flush. “No,” he groans, “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

John walks over to the bed, lifts up the covers and climbs in next to Alex. He puts the bag down on his other side and turns to face him, hands gripped tight in his lap.

“Will you hear me out first?”

Alex sighs, then realises he’s being an asshole for making John feel so bad about going to the effort of getting him a gift. 

“John,” he says, dropping his hands. “I _told_ you not to.”

“Yeah, I know. But, Alex?” John reaches out and takes one of his hands, squeezing it tightly. Alex feels a little tremor in it. “This is going to sound stupid and corny, but you have no idea how grateful I am to have you here. Ever since you showed up, things have been - better.”

Alex grimaces as the heartfelt words, flooded with guilt as he remembers every time he has betrayed John in some way this year - joking about him with Henry, using him as cover for his own misdeeds, manipulating John into doing things for him, even the times he closes his eyes and imagines his foster brother touching him in a decidedly unbrotherly way. 

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, shaking his head and staring down at the duvet between them.

“I’m serious. You’ve been a real friend, and probably the first person I have ever felt that I could genuinely trust. And we’ve had some fun times - you’ve really, ah, broadened my horizons.”

Alex smirks a little at that. Considering where John started, that doesn’t sound like much of a feat.

John reaches back with his free hand, grabs the gift bag and sets it down between them. 

“If you really don’t want it, I can take it back, but have a look first?”

Alex sighs, pulls his hand out of John’s hold and reaches into the bag. He pulls away the layer of tissue paper and extracts a beautiful, finely made long black coat. Exactly the kind he’s been admiring on the rich kids at school while he trudges around with his cheap, ill-fitting grey one that lets in all the stray gusts of cold air. He runs his thumb over the fabric - thick but soft, unmistakably the best quality. The sort of thing that easily costs a few hundred dollars, and that’s if you get it on discount. He absolutely loves it.

Alex tucks it back into the bag and shakes his head. “John. There’s no way I can accept it.”

John tilts his head and smiles hesitantly. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Alex admits softly, his throat suddenly thick with emotion.

“Then it’s yours,” John insists. 

“You don’t--” He cuts off. There’s no way he can explain it to John properly. How even the idea of accepting something so valuable clenches his stomach into knots. It’s not even about the money. It’s what it means for that money to be spent on him. “I can’t.”

John sighs. “Look, we’re moving to D.C. in a few months, and it gets much colder there - that old thing you wear is barely good enough for the Carolina winter. Besides, you know how the kids are at school? Shallow? Obsessed with appearances? That’s not going to change, and if anything it’s going to be worse at Georgetown.” John meets his eyes earnestly. “I know you don’t need anyone’s help to achieve your goals, but that doesn't mean I can’t make things a little easier. If you _look_ like you fit in, that will make more people pay attention to all the really smart stuff you have to say.”

Shit. John’s making some really good points - things Alex himself has been thinking about too.

“Besides,” John says, “I just think it would look really good on you.”

Alex blushes at that, then bites his lip. He can do this - for John. “Okay. Thank you. I love it.”

“Great,” John says with a relieved smile. “Don’t forget, we’ll have a quick breakfast just now and then it’s off to church.” He starts to shift off the bed but Alex puts a hand on his arm.

“Not so fast, Laurens,” he says sternly. “Sit.”

John’s eyes widen. “What?”

Alex laughs and reaches across into his drawer, pulling out the little gift. “I cheated too.”

John huffs. “You didn’t have to.”

“Enough hypocrisy from you,” Alex says as he hands it over. “Open it.”

John smiles, looking embarrassed and pleased, and tears open the paper. When he sees the paints and the sketchbook, his brow furrows, and Alex has a momentary flash of panic that John hates it, that Alex has completely misjudged this. But when John looks up at him again, his face is suffused with emotion. Alex opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance, because John lunges forward and pulls him into a massive hug. Alex can feel the tremble in John’s body when he reaches around and reciprocates, tucking his face into John’s neck and breathing in deeply.

“Thank you,” John whispers in his ear. “Really. For seeing me. For everything.”

\-----

The firework show on Christmas Day ends with live music and a buffet table, where families bring various Christmas treats of pumpkin pie and sugar cookies in big foil trays. Martha takes the kids to watch the children’s entertainer on the little stage erected at the other end of the field, while John and Alex gather in the line for food to collect enough to bring back to the others.

Alex’s arms are folded and he looks down at the table with a frown. “Does Henry never come to this?”

John tosses a few gingerbread men into a paper bag and shakes his head. “Nah, it was something we’d do with mom. I think he’d come when Martha and I were really little though.”

John doesn’t want to talk about his dad. Christmas is a delicate time, and a reminder of his father’s distance and coldness particularly around this time of year isn’t helping.

Alex shrugs and takes a piece of pumpkin pie. John has noticed it’s one of the few seasonal things he seems to like. He seems to avoid most of the southern food they eat down here. In fact, John has noticed he has a bad habit of foregoing meals in favour of school work or reading his way insatiably through his dad’s library.

“Hey, one benefit of coming down south, the pumpkin pie’s real good, right?”

Alex inclines his head. “My mom made a really good one.”

John grins. “I bet. So did mine.”

Alex grins, and they begin the walk back to the benches on the far end of the field. John has a free arm, so he slings it over Alex’s shoulder, not pulling him close or even letting it rest too heavily around him. He’s noticed Alex responds well to this type of platonic, carefree touch. 

As much as John would like to think tonight is just about relaxing and having fun, he’s acutely aware that it has a purpose too. The kids need to know that while mom is gone, John is here to fill the gap as best he can. And as for Alex... John just wants to take some of that discomfort from his expression, see the tension leave his shoulders, the defensive bite melt from his voice. He’s seen that guard drop before, and even though maybe this is a weightier task around Christmas time, he can’t bring himself to consign it to futility.

They sit on picnic benches, huddled together over styrofoam cups of hot chocolate and watching spirals of steam swirl up into the cold night air. Alex has both hands wrapped around his cup, his jaw set tight against the cold, his shoulders rounded, and his chin tucked into the collar of his old jacket. John isn’t entirely sure why he’s not wearing the new one, but then again - this is Alex. He needs to come around to things in his own time, and frankly John was pleasantly surprised he accepted the gift at all.

“I thought we were in the tropics here,” Alex grits out. “I _am_ freezing my balls off.”

Martha shoots John an exasperated look and wipes some crumbs from the corner of Polly’s mouth. Harry grins wickedly and opens his mouth to comment again on Alex’s choice of words.

“Who knows, maybe it’ll snow this year,” John says quickly, leaning in to pass Jemmy the cookies that his shorter arm can’t quite reach.

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Thought I’d left all that behind in New York.”

Martha rolls her eyes and pulls Polly closer to her, one hand rubbing soothing circles into her shoulder. “Who knows, maybe you’ll be back there before long,” she says, a touch of nastiness in her tone that undercuts the polite smile on her face. Alex glares at her and takes another sip of his hot chocolate, then shifts a little on the bench, with his shoulders now facing away from them all.

John gives Martha a warning look, but she’s steadfastly ignoring him in favour of cutting Polly’s slice of pie into bite-sized pieces. John suddenly wonders whether it was a good idea to stay for the food and music after the show. Alex has seemed almost happy watching the fireworks, with the metallic smell of the gunpowder in the air and the bright colours flashing in his wide eyes. Now the tension sits heavy and uncomfortable around them.

He leans in and slings an arm around Alex, pulling him back along the bench.

“Stop sulking,” he murmurs. “Are you really gonna let _Maggie_ put you out?”

Alex’s lips twitch into a small smile and he shrugs. 

John slaps him on the shoulder with a grin and keeps him there, loosely under his arm. He can pretend it’s just to keep them both warm like this, if he exaggerates his occasional shiver or sigh or discomfort when a cold gust of air breezes by them.

Jemmy keeps up a stream of chatter that negates the need for anyone else to say much. Martha warms up a little as she teaches Polly the words to a Christmas lullaby mom used to sing them.

Alex relaxes into his side and the press of his warm head into the edge of John’s jaw is enough that he hardly even feels the cold now. Alex sips at his hot chocolate and savours the slice of pumpkin pie he took from the buffet table, taking tiny forkfuls and chewing them slowly and thoughtfully.

Jemmy is still midway through a stream of excited chatter when he looks up, as though a sudden thought has occurred to him.

“Alex! What did you do for Christmas where you come from?”

John looks quickly at Alex, who’s fork has stopped midway to his mouth. For a moment, he looks as though he’d like to shut Jemmy’s question down with a brusque non-answer, but he catches John’s nervous look and his expression softens.

“Uhh… not too different from stuff you do here, but we used to go swimming on Christmas Day,” he says, resting his chin in his hand and pushing a little more firmly up against John. John tightens his hand on Alex’s upper arm in a silent gesture of support.

Jemmy looks fascinated. “Wasn’t it really cold?”

Alex grins. “Nah. It’s never that cold in the Caribbean. We had a good time.”

Jenny turns excitedly to Martha to prattle on about the beach they frequent in the summer and John raises his eyebrows at Alex. “Some impressive self-restraint.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Piss off. He’s a cute kid, if you ignore all the chatter.”

\-----

Alex tries to find moments when no one is paying attention to him to sneak glances at his phone. John of course, is watching him like a hawk, doing the overbearing older-brother thing and making sure Alex doesn't get left out of any activities. It is equal measures annoying and endearing, and Alex has no complaints about John putting his warm arm around him against the cold, but it also means Alex has to hold his mask up all the time and he’s getting exhausted.

James should have called by now. 

It’s an hour later there, and Alex knows the Christmas Day routine well enough to know that there have been plenty of chances for Jamie to phone him between the communal lunch and trip to the beach ahead of the grudging evening church outing. It’s now late enough that they should be done with the service. 

He checks the screen again. Nothing. 

John catches him looking at his phone and gives Alex a frown - concern rather than disapproval. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure - was just checking if it’s going to warm up in the next few days,” Alex says with a scoff. He stands. “Bathroom?”

John points him off towards the main building and Alex walks in that direction until he sees John look away, then ducks around the side of the building instead and makes the call himself.

There’s a pause as the network makes the long-distance link, and then the call connects. It takes a good ten rings for James to answer.

“Hello?” James sounds out of breath, like he had to run to catch the call; behind him is a distant sound of conversation, music and laughter.

“Jamie, it’s me.”

“Alex! Hey!”

The happy surprise in James’ voice is evident, and Alex immediately feels his mood thawing. 

“Just wanted to wish you a merry christmas.”

“Thanks, Lex, same to you. What are you up to there with your posh new family? Bet it’s much more impressive than the holidays here.”

Alex looks around himself at the ostentatious setting and the lush decorations - and perhaps it would all be a little pretentious if not for the unquestioning way John has wrapped him up in care and belonging. “It’s pretty fun,” Alex equivocates. “Though I do miss being at the beach. And seeing everyone back home.”

James chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, everyone’s been asking about you. I’ve been telling them how you’re moving up in the world, leaving all us small-town folks behind.”

Alex knows that James is joking, but he detects just a little note of sarcasm or accusation underneath it. And that _is_ what Alex is trying to do, for the most part. But he can’t help wishing he was on the island right now, piled into the Stevenses’ living room, joking with Ned while eating grilled fish and potato salad off plastic plates.

“Well, I hope everyone’s giving Ned shit too, for going off to be a fancy New York doctor.”

James snorts. “You know how the Stevenses are. Speaking of...” There’s a moment of muffled talking, and then a new voice comes on the line.

“Alex, dear, merry christmas!”

Mrs Stevens’ voice comes across the line, as warm and affectionate as Alex has always known it. His face immediately breaks into a huge grin.

“Same to you, Mrs S. How are things?”

They chat briefly about news from the island - most of it a mother’s enthusiastic gushing about Ned’s many achievements, and the usual laments about the poor state of the local infrastructure. “But we make do, as always,” she concludes, a familiar refrain from home that Alex himself has sprouted often enough. “We’re just so happy to hear that you’re settled in somewhere decent. You know that if there was any way we could have--”

“Yes. I know.” The Stevenses had taken him and James in for a little while, but their own family had to come first when money and space became too tight. “It’s all worked out great, though.”

“Will you be coming to visit soon?”

“Ah.” Alex looks around himself again. For all his momentary nostalgia, the thought of going back to the grimy, crumbling places he frequented as a kid suddenly loses its luster. “No plans right now.”

“Don’t you worry, dear. If you ever do, you know we’ve got a couch for you.”

“Thanks, Mrs S. Appreciate it.”

“I’m sending you a big hug! Oh, here’s Jamie again,” she says and hands over the phone.

“I should, ah, really get back,” James says. 

“Yeah. You do that. Give everyone my best.”

“Bye!” James hangs up.

Alex stares down at his phone, caught at an emotional crossroads. He _thinks_ that he misses home, but home seems to have moved on without him - and anyway, what exactly is it that he’s feeling nostalgic about? The poor plumbing and potholed roads? The petty older brother? The survival mentality that keeps people stuck?

He chews it over, frowning to himself as he goes back to where the Laurenses are sitting. John looks up, gives him a big smile and reaches up his arm, inviting Alex back into its warm circle. As he flops down gratefully, he can’t escape the idea that he’s upgraded his life in more ways than one.


	15. Chapter 15

“Ugh. Thank god we can finally get away from all _that_.” 

John flops down onto the grass next to Alex, making sure not to spill his drink. It’s just sparkling apple juice, but he’s been pretending it’s champagne. Sham-pagne, he jokes to himself. Sham-pain. Sounds about right.

He waves back at the house, where light, music and people are spilling out onto the wide lawn. The New Year’s gala is always such a tricky line to walk, negotiating between being the charming and proper eldest son with his dad’s guests, and the breezy teenager with the kids his own age. It’s exhausting. He doesn’t know how the other politicians’ kids make it look so easy - but then again, he probably comes off in the same way. It’s all façade, swans paddling frantically beneath the surface of the water.

Compounding his misery is Frankie. 

Gorgeous, funny, tall, sweet Frankie Kinloch, down from Europe with his family again. They travel back and forth pretty erratically, and it’s been well over a year since they’ve seen each other - a year that has only improved Frankie’s phenomenally good looks. John remembers how they were best friends as little kids, thick as thieves, and he also remembers when he started noticing his friend’s lean legs and dimpled smile and intent blue eyes and began asking himself some very scary questions.

At least he can focus on Frankie tonight, and divert some of the ever-present chest-tightening antsiness he feels when he thinks about Alex. Not that he’s had the guts to do more than say hi to Frankie and then run away, pretending he was needed elsewhere.

Oblivious to John’s inner struggle, Alex laughs. He’s still a little flushed from the heat of the gathering as he leans back against a tree trunk. Unlike him, Alex seems to be loving all this socialising. 

“It wasn’t _that_ bad.” 

“Yeah, easy for you to say, you didn’t have to get your cheek pinched by every woman over forty in the greater Charleston area.” 

Alex shrugs. “It’s New Year’s. If the formalities are done, I _do_ wanna get pissed.”

John groans. The last time he was drunk was with Alex in his bedroom, and he still has nightmarish flashbacks of heaving up black bile and sitting through church in a nauseated stupor - and moderately more pleasant memories about how they’d held each other and almost kissed. But he’s pretending to get wasted tonight, so he needs to keep the game up. “You grab something from behind the bar?”

Alex looks around surreptitiously. “Uh, yeah,” he grins, pulls a bottle of scotch from between himself and the tree. “Got this. Good enough compensation?”

John’s eyes go a little wide - the bottle looks expensive, and it’s nearly full - but he tries to play it cool. “Yeah, guess that’s decent. I’m good here.” He holds up his champagne glass. 

Alex raises his eyebrows and twists the cap off the bottle. “Suit yourself, I guess. You don’t want a bit?” He mimes splashing some of the scotch into John’s glass.

“Jeez, Alex, you can’t mix whiskey and champagne.” Then again, what does he know? Maybe that is some sort of cocktail? “At least, uh, not if you have the good stuff.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “I’m not normally that picky, especially if someone leaves good whiskey lying around. Besides - New Year’s. Free for all and everything.”

“Just as long as dad doesn’t catch y-- Uh, us. Cheers.” John holds up his glass. “Good fucking riddance to this miserable year.” 

Alex taps the side of John’s glass with the bottle, pouting playfully. “I came here this year. That’s gotta count for something?”

John pretends to shrug and look undecided. It’s true enough that he can’t decide if Alex is the best or worst thing ever to happen to him. “I mean I never would’ve been busted for having drugs if not for you, so… I guess it wasn’t a complete wash.” He winks.

Alex’s eyes widen incredulously. “ _You_ got busted? Fuck, John- you heard the chewing out Henry gave me.” Alex’s cheeks flush red at the memory. “If I hadn’t-- Well… I’ve definitely brought some excitement, at least?” Alex nudges him in the ribs, grinning cockily. 

John grimaces at the first part - that guilt’s not going away any time soon - but then smiles more genuinely. “If I’m honest, it’s been quite a relief to have something exciting going on. After, uh, mom and all that.”

Alex nods seriously, swallowing with a faint grimace. “Totally. Uh-- I mean, ditto. It’s been fun.”

“Mmm.” John takes another sip and looks contemplatively over the crowd of teenagers huddled together on the porch, laughing and swaying to the faint music. His eyes land on Frankie. His blonde hair is glowing like a halo in the backlight and he’s discarded his blazer, so John can see how his crisp white shirt clings tightly to his wide shoulders. Damn. Frankie’s not that little kid anymore. 

Just as this thought crosses his mind, Frankie glances up and their eyes meet across the lawn. John tears his gaze away with a little surprised gasp, goes pink, and turns back to grimace fixedly out at the lake. 

Alex laughs at him, sharp and delighted. “What the hell was that?” He cranes his neck to peer in the direction John has just been looking, eyes narrowed.

“Fuck.” John bites his lip. “Just, ah, don’t look, okay? It’s-- Shit. It’s Frankie.”

Alex frowns, still sneaking curious glances over John’s shoulder. “Which one is he again?”

“Alex!” John hisses frantically. “Stop looking!” He casts a nervous glance in the direction, trying to keep it inconspicuous. “Blonde guy. Tall. White shirt.”

Alex laughs, trying to keep his gaze casual and disinterested. “That narrows it down a bit.” He glances again, then his eyes widen a little. “Oh…”

“Yeah.” John goes redder. “That’s him.” He buries his face in his hands.

“Hang on, that’s not another one of your horse boy friends, is it?”

“Nope,” John says, muffled behind his hands. “Unrelated hopeless crush.”

He hears Alex taking another swig from his bottle. “He’s not out of your league, though.”

John drops his hands with a sigh. “Don’t start.”

But Alex is relentless whenever an opportunity arises for him to get John close to another guy - like it’s his personal mission to save John from his own pathetic lack of experience. The irony, of course, is that John would be perfectly content to do all sorts of things like that with the boy sitting right beside him. But it’s a vicious circle, wanting someone he can’t have, but not really being able to want anyone else because of it. Except maybe Frankie. Seeing him tonight has sparked something that’s laid dormant for a long time.

“Were you planning on, maybe,” Alex waggles his eyebrows, “ _Getting_ with him?”

John melts into himself. He’s too sober to have this conversation. “Alex! You can’t just ‘get with’ people!” He takes another drink. “And definitely not here.”

Alex leans his head back against the tree trunk and shoots John an amused look. “It’s very romantic out here. And dark. Private…”

“ _Alex!_ Stop saying stuff like that.”

Alex smirks. “Oh, wait, is he the European guy?”

“Yeah. Swiss-French. Fucking accent and everything.”

“Oh shit, yeah, I think Henry introduced me to his dad. Kinloch or something? Fuck, they’re loaded, right? Does he have siblings?”

“Why?” John gives him a skeptical look. Alex has a disconcertingly eager note in his voice. “What are you scheming?”

Alex shrugs, looking amused. “Maybe they’re hot. Anyway, it’s hard not to think about networking and shit when you meet this many influential people.”

John shrugs. He can’t really relate, since his goal this whole evening has been to get _away_ from all of them. “Networking and making out are not the same thing, you know?”

Alex laughs. “You’re adorable. The way I see it, it’s a venn diagram with some considerable overlap.”

John hates when Alex takes that slightly condescending tone with him. “Ugh, you are the _worst_.” But he can’t help feeling a self-conscious prickle along his back. “Take a quick glance, he’s not looking over, is he?”

Alex shakes his head, grinning devilishly. “Nope. He’s talking to some pretty blonde chick.”

John sighs with a mix of relief and disappointment. “Oh, that’s probably Martha. _Other_ Martha.” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “Relax, I’m kidding. He’s been glancing over here every few moments for like five minutes now.”

“What? Really?” His terror spikes up again instantly. If Frankie is actually interested, that would mean John _could_ do something about it, and that’s just too scary to contemplate. “Shit!”

Alex just looks bewildered. “I thought you _liked_ him? Come on, we should go talk with him or something.”

“Shhh, keep your voice down, jesus.” John shakes his head. “How do you just _do_ that - just talk to people and shit?”

Alex looks at him quizzically. “How do I _talk_ to people? I dunno. Open my mouth and words come out? If I didn’t talk to them, I’d be talking to myself, and that would just be sad.”

“Ugh, stop being an idiot. You know what I mean. People you… well, _like_.” 

Alex sighs, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. “Thick skin? Can’t be too afraid of rejection. If you want something badly enough, you just gotta go for it, right? We’ve _had_ this conversation, come on.”

John takes a big sip, then looks down in disappointment at his glass, wishing it was actually alcohol. Or wishing that, like Alex, he wasn’t so afraid of what others thought. “Just feels like the stakes are too high, you know? I mean, I’ve kinda liked him even before I was really sure I was - you know.” He’s too sober to say _the word._

Alex’s mouth twists into a thoughtful frown. “Hm, I guess. But if you like him that much, it seems a shame not to talk to him. Everyone’s drunk, your dad’s off with the grown-ups. Anyway, he might be snatched up by the end of the night. You’re always saying you wished you had the opportunity to--”

“Yeah,” John cuts him off sharply. “I bet, and Martha’s pretty enough to catch even _his_ eye.” He stares down at the grass despondently. Frankie _has_ confided that he’s into both guys and girls, just like Alex, but John is too much of a coward to even think about doing something with this information. “I mean, I’ll go chat to him later or whatever, but just about normal stuff. I just, I can’t--”

Alex leans over and ruffles John’s hair gently, but that just makes him feel worse about the touches he wishes he could have instead. “It’s not like you have to _sleep_ with him tonight - but, like, try to at least chat him up a bit.”

John groans. He doesn’t know why his protests aren’t sinking in; it’s like Alex refuses to hear him. “I’m _not_ like you, Alex. Wish I could just send you to be my fucking match-maker or whatever. But that’s not how it works.”

“You need another drink,” Alex protests. “Liquid courage!”

“I’m good.” He holds up his glass. “Pretty, uh, wasted already,” he lies.

“Fine, whatever. Just don’t get all mopey on me if you regret not making a move tomorrow.”

“I’ll be mopey if I want, fuck you.” But the little note of determination he hears in Alex’s tone registers a second later, and he flushes with worry. All those surreptitious glances, the probing questions… He reaches out to grab Alex’s arm. “Don’t _say_ anything to him, okay?”

Alex throws up his free hand, laughing incredulously. “Okay, okay! Man, unless you specifically ask me to, I’d rather be getting drunk and finding someone for myself than spending New Year’s as your wingman. Chill.”

“Okay. I just don’t want you to get any funny ideas about _helping_ or some shit. It’s not like…” he trails off, not really sure what he’s trying to say - especially considering this is Alex, which means this whole conversation is tangled in a subtext he can’t risk revealing.

Alex yawns. “Not like what?” He isn’t slurring his words yet, but his tone has lost some of that sharp, defensive bite.

“Oh, um. I just wish it was easier. I mean, with Frankie. I really like him. A lot. I just think it would be easier if he wasn’t the, uh, the first one.” 

Alex rolls over onto his stomach, nodding. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” he mumbles, then reaches up to slap John on the shoulder. “You just gotta bite the bullet.”

“Easier said than done. Do you think, maybe in a few years, he might still be interested?”

Alex laughs sharply. “A few _years?_ John, he might not even be in the country. You’re not seriously planning on holding out that long, are you?”

“Fuck! I don’t know!” He covers his eyes with one forearm. 

“Maybe you should get a better idea of if he’s into _you_ before you spend the next few years pining over him.”

“Yes, but - well. It’s not like I have _any_ idea how this stuff works,” John mumbles bitterly.

Alex shrugs, then leans in to whisper in his ear through a broad grin. “Wanna know a secret? No one has a fucking clue what they’re doing. It’s just bravado.”

John snorts, though he gets the sense that Alex is humouring him more than anything. “Well, okay. And I repeat, don’t you fucking dare get involved in this, but - what would be an obvious clue?”

Alex leans back, stretching his hands up towards the sky. “That he likes you? I guess… if you catch him looking at you? If he finds an excuse to touch you - your hand, your arm, whatever.”

John thinks back to when he greeted Frankie earlier in the evening - how Frankie had shunned his offered handshake in lieu of a hug, how he’s murmured _hey, Jackie_ into his ear, how he’d kept his hand on John’s elbow just a second too long when they’d pulled apart. John had been too eager to get away to really pay any attention to all this, but... “Oh god,” he groans. “Uh. Yeah.”

Alex beams, right on cue. “Well, that’s great! I was worried you’d have your heart broken over this guy not liking you back or something. You need to do the same stuff to him, then. Test out the waters.”

“No, I--” John sighs. “Okay. Look. I’ll make you a deal. After finals, okay? I can’t risk any shit with my dad before then.”

“Finals? In like five months?” Alex sounds just a little put out. “I guess that’s not an eternity or anything.”

“Feels like it,” John says, contradicting himself again.

Alex sits up and crosses his legs, lurching forwards for a moment only to catch himself with a small grunt. “No one’s forcing you to wait.”

John pouts a little, desperate for the opportunity to change topics. “Anyone you have your eye on?”

Alex gives him a jaunty little smile. “Uh, I dunno, there’s plenty of good-looking jock guys. Other Martha is cute. I’ll see where the night takes me.” 

“Oh?” John smirks. “Martha’s cool. Just not _my_ Martha, okay? I hope that goes without saying.”

Alex lets out a burst of raucous laughter. “Martha fucking Laurens? She hates my guts, and it doesn’t help that I keep calling her Maggie. You don’t need to worry about that.”

John laughs as well. “Oh god, she _hates_ it! She told me to ask you to stop, but it was too funny, and she takes herself too seriously anyway. Oh, and just so you know, Martha - other Martha, that is - she was the girl I told you about. The first person I kissed.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Not bad, not bad. You’ve got game, John - she’s cute. Though I’m guessing it didn’t end well?”

“Well - it didn’t _fix_ me, which was the goal.” He winces. “But no regrets. It’s not like we did anything crazy, and she was really cool about it.”

Alex makes a sympathetic noise. “Shit, man, it’s like I said - don’t fix what isn’t broken.”

John half-smiles, staring up at the sky as he reminisces. “I’m working on it. Honestly, I think she was also glad to have all that first-kiss stuff over with. There’s so much stupid pressure around shit like that.”

Alex inclines his head lazily. “It doesn’t _have_ to be a big deal.”

“Yeah, yeah, mister experienced man of the world. Give us sad virgins a chance to catch up, okay?” John laughs lightly.

Alex shrugs, turning his face away to look out over the lake. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be anyway. The big wide world.”

“I guess.” John frowns. 

Alex twists his mouth to the side. “Might be a bit weird, though, kissing your ex-girl. Luckily there are plenty of hot guys and girls in the sea.”

John chuckles. “I’m glad you seem to have changed your mind about - how did you put it? - ‘all these preppy young conservatives’?”

Alex smirks. “What’s made you think I’ve changed my mind? Yeah, they’re attractive, but I swear the guys down here are so different to the ones in New York.”

“What? You mean nice? Polite? Not all gangsters or drug dealers or whatever?” 

Alex rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, you’re _such_ a southerner. No, I mean - they’re all republicans, right? Daddy’s a politician or businessman or something?” 

“Republicans are people too, you know? Maybe _you_ have too many stereotypes?” 

“Yeah, yeah, but it also makes everything a bit more dangerous, if they’re gonna be messing around with other boys.”

John sighs. Not this dead horse again. South Carolina might not be as liberal and open as the north, but it’s still his home, and Alex takes a little too much pleasure in tearing it down. “Look,” he says, knowing he’s contradicting stuff he’s said before, “It’s not a huge deal, not like it used to be. You just have to be discreet.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Maybe elsewhere in the state, but you have to admit - that crowd?” He gestures at the house. “You’ve seen what happens when some republican congressman is rumored to be gay or whatever.”

John lowers his voice. “Yeah, but I mean, that’s my point? You shouldn’t go rubbing it in people’s faces. But if it happens behind closed doors and you can keep it to yourself, it’s not like you’re gonna get disowned or anything.”

Alex actually puts down the bottle of scotch and stares at him, a note of disbelief in his smile. “You’re sounding a lot like Henry right now. Do you have a problem when I ‘rub it in someone’s face’?”

That’s not a fair comment, and Alex knows it. “Fuck off, you know I don’t!” He lowers his voice again, more to grumble to himself. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand it.”

Alex shrugs, looking annoyed. “Oh come on, I listened to you rant about it for ages before. Whatever. Just don’t act like it isn’t even a little fucked up.”

“Look, it’s not ideal, but…” He glances back to Frankie, who’s caught up in a laughing argument with the group around him. “I mean, you just need to be careful, that’s all. _You,_ too. Dad’s not gonna be able to do anything to you, but there’s no sense getting on his bad side for no reason.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “I guess, but I’m not letting your dad cockblock me. Sorry.”

John goes bright red. “Don’t _say_ stuff like that!”

Alex throws his head back, sighing exaggeratedly. “Oh my god, we’re out in a field by the lake, everyone’s pissed as hell! I can say cock if I want!”

John falls back to lie on the damp grass. “Stop, please!” he groans, but it comes out in a laugh. The thought of his dad meddling in any of their romantic lives is somehow both terrifying and hilarious. 

Alex laughs, shifting over on the grass so that he’s lying on his side next to John, leaning on his elbow with his head propped up in his hand. “I just… I hope you have fun this year, you know? You need to put yourself out there more. New year, new John!”

John snorts. “Let me just survive the rest of my senior year and not piss off dad and get out of this fucking house and then…” He glances around surreptitiously, infected by Alex’s rebellious mood. “Well, then maybe cocks will be back in the picture.”

Alex whoops loudly, clapping John on the shoulder. “It’s on the record, ladies and gentleman! Mr. Laurens has vowed to get some cock!”

John goes red. “I hate you.”

“Lovely,” Alex smirks.

John sighs. “But, yeah, maybe once we’re out of this place, up at Georgetown, things will be a little easier. Right now it just feels like my whole life is a fucking mess.”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Your whole life? You’re saying you don’t have _one_ thing going for you?”

John scowls, thinking about every way he has to bite his tongue and hide who he is on a daily basis, about how his dad has boxed him in from every angle, made every single consequential decision on his behalf. “Well - no.”

Alex shrugs, rolls his eyes. “I mean you _could_ do a lot if you weren’t so afraid of Henry.” Some of the bite returns. “And it’s not like you have to really worry about school, or college, or what you’ll do afterwards…”

“Fuck off, I’m not _afraid_ of him, I just don’t wanna have to deal with his bullshit. And I _do_ have to worry about that shit - that’s part of the problem! I don’t get a _choice_.”

Alex scoffs. “Come on, you know even now you’ll get a solid degree, and even if you flunk out, your dad will find you a good job. You have the right name. You have money. I’m just _saying_ \- you’ll never not be comfortable.”

John narrows his eyes. For some reason he always gets upset when Alex goes down this path - because as true as all that might be, it’s completely beside the point. “I don’t _want_ any of that.”

Alex looks at him sharply. “Well, you have it. Don’t take it for granted.”

“You don’t _get_ it. You’re free to just do whatever you want. I bet you’d feel the same way I do if _you_ had to deal with all the expectations I have on my shoulders.”

Alex purses his lips, looking away. “Yeah, I’m free to do whatever I have the means to. But as it stands, that’s a bit precarious, isn’t it? I’m not guaranteed the opportunities you have.”

John sighs. “Yeah. Okay, I guess. But you kind of are, now. I know dad does this foster stuff for the PR, but it does actually make a difference.” At least, John reflects, for those kids who stick around long enough to benefit. He doesn’t know what happened to the ones who passed through briefly. “I get the sense that he likes you. He was willing to pay for your school fees, right?”

Alex winces. “Uh, yeah, I guess. It’s definitely not a guarantee, though. I’ve gotta be perfect, don’t I? Keep my grades up, make myself usef-- Uh, useful for the PR stuff, like you said…” He trails off awkwardly.

“I know you, Alex. Perfect doesn’t seem to be a problem for you - at least not for school stuff. That’s why I’m saying, just fly under the radar.”

Alex frowns. “Yeah.”

“Good. You’re fun, I wanna keep you around. Plus, you can give me all your - uh, you know, tips and stuff for what to do with boys.”

Alex waggles his eyebrows. “John! Haven’t you already weaseled it all out of me?”

“You’re such a dork.” 

“Bit rich coming from you!” Alex laughs, and prods him in the ribs. 

“Yeah, yeah. But thanks. For being someone I can actually trust with this stuff. It’s nice to have a little brother who’s not a total shithead.” John slips the title in, wondering how Alex will react this time; usually it’s with a frown or a scoff. It doesn’t do anything to ease the tightness in his own belly, but it helps to remind him of the distance he’s trying to maintain.

Alex stares off across the lake, then shakes some grass from his hair. “Do you wanna get a drink? Go talk to some people?”

“You go ahead. I’m gonna hang out here for a bit.” John has a lot to think about, and he’s still worn thin from the evening of socialising. 

Alex frowns. “What? Alone in the dark?”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”

Alex laughs. “No - just seems a bit lonely. You should come up to the party. It’ll be the new year soon.”

“I will. In a little while, okay? Being alone is not a bad thing. Helps get your head straight.” He pauses. “Pun not intended.”

Alex shrugs, picking up the bottle of scotch and taking another swig. “Freudian slip?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “And next I’m gonna wanna sleep with my dad, right? Or how does that go?” 

Alex struggles to his feet. “Gross, John.”

“Been hanging around you too much, clearly.”

Alex nudges John’s side with his foot, but there’s a strange dark look that crosses his features for a moment. It’s gone before John can really examine it.

“Too bad. Seems like you’re stuck with me. Well. Not right now, I’m gonna go talk to people.”

Alex is wiping grass from his pants and straightening his shirt. It suddenly occurs to John how it might look if Alex returned from being alone with him, looking tousled and flushed, even if all he’s really done is lie in the grass and drink. Nothing he can do about that now, though. 

“Have fun. But remember--”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not gonna say anything to Frankie, don’t worry.” Alex straightens the cuffs of the light blue dress shirt John loaned him, smirking down at John’s anxious face.

“Thanks. Nice to know I can count on you.”

“Sure thing. Enjoy your lonely champagne.” Alex blows him a kiss and walks off back towards the house. 

John bites the inside of his cheek. 

Why does he have to be such a coward? Being infatuated with Alex is one thing, because at least there he’s got the excuse that they’re foster brothers to save him from having to do anything about it. It still rankles to know Alex is planning to find someone else to get intimate with tonight, but at least he has the guarantee that they’ll still be sitting around the same breakfast table tomorrow morning, joking in the car to school, doing homework in one of their rooms together - all the nice kinds of closeness that they’re allowed to share. 

But Frankie is fair game, and in this case it’s entirely John’s fault that he’s just too terrified to approach him. He has no problem barreling fists-first into a fight, or galloping his horse headlong at his opponents, or standing with his chin up while his dad hurls taunts. But this? Even considering this kind of vulnerability? It leaves his heart racing and his throat tight.

He wishes that the universe would just untangle this whole mess for him. As desperately painful as it would be, perhaps it would be best if Frankie did just slip off with someone else and shut that door in his face for good. Then he could push down those feelings, like he does with all the rest, and be done with it. But the fact that there’s hope - that Alex thinks the interest might be mutual - actually just makes it worse. Because he’s choosing not to take the opportunity. And he _knows_ he’s going to regret it.

John sits up again, pulls his knees in and wraps his arms around them. Six more months and he’ll be packing for college, able to reinvent himself as a bolder, better version of himself. But for now he’ll just lean on what he knows best - sticking a benign smile on his face, holding his back straight, and biting down hard on his tongue as he pretends to be everything he’s not.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating...!

John is missing out, Alex thinks dryly, as he grins at the cute, smiley brunette who’s pouring him a drink. Alex doesn’t really know anyone here. The crowd is a sea of vaguely familiar faces, collars loosened after the stifling heat of the gala and girls holding their heels to stand barefoot in the damp grass. Still, when someone manages to get some music blaring properly through a set of speakers, it doesn’t really matter that they’re all strangers. The heat, the booze and the smell of expensive perfume seems to bind them all more tightly together.

He wobbles a little as he gets to his feet from his crouch over by the ice bucket and turns around to sidle towards the main crowd. The talk with John has gotten him antsy - all he can think about now is getting someone’s hands on his body tonight. John won’t miss him for a half hour.

Poor guy. He glances over to where John is still sitting cross legged under the trees by the lake. If he doesn’t go after Francis sooner rather than later, someone’s going to beat him to it.

“Oh, hello! It’s Alexander, isn’t it?”

He turns around, a little surprised that someone knows his name, and realises who it is from the accent just a moment before he sees the speaker. 

Francis is gorgeous up close, as tall and broad as John, and all coloured in gold - blond and tanned, with the sort of self-assured smile and large, confident hands that never fail to distract Alex. He has the toned, burnished look of someone who’s spent all winter on the gleaming slopes of the Swiss Alps.

Alex can’t help but put a flirty quirk into his grin. “Yeah. You’re Francis, right?”

Francis nods and holds out his hand. Alex takes it with a laugh and makes sure to keep his grip firm, though he can’t help the twitch that goes up his arm at the sensation of that broad hand closing around his.

“Not a bad night, huh?” Francis grins. “I almost feel bad for all the adults stuck in there.”

Alex shrugs, taking a drink from the cup in his hand. It’s a touch too strong, but - what were his words to John? Liquid confidence?

“Nah, that’s gotta be their idea of letting loose. I’m pretty happy to let them be.”

Francis laughs. They’re right at the edge of the crowd now, a foot away from being absorbed by the milling mass of people.

“You’re from New York, right?” Francis asks, stepping a little closer to make himself heard; his gaze feels oddly intense in the low light.

Alex hesitates for just a moment, then shrugs airily. “I was in New York for a few years before this. Moved around a lot, you know?”

Yes. That evokes the idea of the same sort of cultured, eclectic background that all these kids come from, as though Alex wandered with his family from one airy townhouse to another - with tennis lessons, private tutors and galas like this every holiday season.

Francis claps him on the shoulder, half-way into the crowd now. “Don’t I,” he smirks. “Well, might see you around later. If I don’t see Jack, tell him I say hi.”

He’s swallowed up by the crowd before Alex can reply, left alone and staring after the gleaming head of blond hair.

Okay. John has a point. Fuck.

He finishes his drink and discards the cup into an overflowing trash bag someone placed by the ice bucket in a vain attempt to minimise clean up. He wants to stay here in the hopes that Francis might come out for another drink, or even that John will emerge from the treeline to rejoin the party. He isn’t so lucky. He gets talking to some kids from John’s English class, two girls and a guy he recognises from the debate society. They’re all a little more along the lines of what Alex expected from this party. Preppy mini-republicans, friendly and nice enough to chat to, but difficult for Alex to find common ground with.

One of the girls, however... Well, she does catch his eye. Kitty something-or-other, curvy and brunette, with that adorable drawl that John has trained out of his accent, but that he sometimes slips into when he’s tired or tipsy. The party has spread out a little now, diverged into little huddles of people drinking and talking in the darkness. The group he’s with merges and then splits, and Alex finds himself down by the edge of the lake with the brunette and one of her friends, passing a joint around and shivering in the chilly night air now that they’re away from the heat of the house. It’s shit weed, and about eighty percent tobacco, but Alex takes it as an opportunity to lean in close to Kitty and light her cigarette with it.

She laughs and cups her hand around their mouths to get the end to catch, then pulls back, taking a long drag on her cigarette and watching him thoughtfully. Her friend, who Alex vaguely recognises from one of his AP classes, darts a look between them and raises her eyebrows.

“I’m going to get another drink,” she says, and makes to turn towards the faint chatter of the rest of the party. Kitty grabs her friend’s arm, giggling and glancing meaningfully at Alex. “No, no! Stay here, come on...”

The other girl grins, taking a step up the bank and extricating her hand from Kitty’s grip. “No, you two’ll be fine.”

She hurries up the slope towards the sounds of the party and Alex turns back to the girl opposite him, grinning. “Some friend.”

She rolls her eyes and stubs her cigarette out on the side of the tree. “Aren’t you John Laurens’...” she hesitates. “You’re staying with him or something?”

“Yup. You’re in some of my classes, I think.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Can I get a hit?”

Alex steps forwards and passes her the joint, but instead of reaching out to take it, she opens her mouth. Alex laughs and places it between her lips. Kitty winks, and keeps her eyes on his as she sucks in a mouthful of smoke. 

Shit, Alex thinks with strange clarity through the otherwise hazy drunken fog, she’s gorgeous.

“Thanks,” she mumbles around it, then takes another drag. She gestures up towards the party and rolls her eyes. “Fucking hate these things.” It’s a familiar refrain. Alex wonders how many of these kids will grow up to organise these sorts of galas just like their parents anyway.

“They’re not so bad,” Alex grins, placing a clumsy hand on the tree trunk by her shoulder. 

She laughs. “Why? Because we get to drink and smoke shitty weed out in the cold?”

“Well, it means I get to spend some time with you,” he says softly, and bites his lip. Kitty’s gaze becomes heavier. Some of the amusement leaves her expression, replaced by eagerness and a hint of uncertainty. Still, she doesn’t move away when Alex reaches in to touch the side of her face. “You’re really beautiful,” he tells her, trying to steady his voice into something resembling genuine fervour. 

She scoffs softly and reaches out to run her fingers lightly down his arm. “I’m _cold,_ ” she pouts, and Alex feels a tremor go through her where their hands and arms touch. He reaches out to hold her waist and she steps nearer, so their bodies press clumsily together. 

He kisses her then, presses his lips to hers in an earnest if uncoordinated dive. They stumble slightly, both unsteady on their feet, and she giggles hotly into his mouth. 

“I’ve just met you,” she breathes, but her tone is coquettish and teasing rather than anything near refusal. Alex laughs and tightens his arm around her waist, pulling them closer. Her breasts are pressing into his chest now, her long hair ticking his face as they kiss again, his tongue nudging forward eagerly - and he can feel the heat flooding him from these points of delicious contact. She must feel him getting hard against her stomach, and Alex moans as she presses her hip against him with a smirk.

 _This_ is what he needs. All the alcohol he’s had tonight has increased the tenor of his eagerness and desperation to feverish levels, and he is finally in range of some relief. And, god, if he fucks her - well, no one has to know it’s his first time, and he could do far worse than a pretty girl pushed up against a tree. Alex isn’t sentimental about his virginity - especially not now, at least, when he feels his need boiling up like this.

Besides, he thinks, with some clearer portion of his brain - this won’t be a bad thing for his reputation among these people. He’s really making an effort to fit seamlessly in with all of them now.

“Hey, Kitty?” 

A voice from somewhere above them, up past the treeline, breaks the spell. The girl pulls back, breathing heavily and looking around for the source of the interruption, dazed and disoriented. 

Crowned in gold by the backlight from the house, Francis peers down through the darkness to where they’re standing by the edge of the lake, trying to make out their forms through the gloom. They step away from each other quickly. Alex feels his face burning and he desperately wants to duck through the trees and into the night before Francis can identify him.

“Kitty! They’re saying your friend’s getting sick, and she’s begging for you to come help her.”

Kitty swears, but she sighs and starts to clamber around the low boughs of the oak tree they’re huddled under, throwing Alex a regretful glance.

“Well, that’s a shame.” She blows him a quick kiss and begins to hasten up the slope. “I’ll see you around, Alex!”

Fuck. Did she _have_ to say his name?

As soon as she’s disappeared over the edge of the bank, a small figure cursing and fighting her way towards the light ahead, Alex leans back against the broad trunk behind him and groans.

“Alex?”

Francis is still here, sounding amused and curious. He begins to make his way down the slope, sliding through the dead leaves and mud. He’ll wreck his expensive leather oxfords, Alex thinks incongruously. 

Alex runs a hand through his hair to neaten it and silently thanks the darkness for hiding his state - crumpled clothes, glowing cheeks, an embarrassing tightness in the front of his pants, not to mention the slightly frantic look in his eye at having gotten so close to relief, only to have it snatched away.

“Hey,” he grumbles. How else is he supposed to react to Francis cockblocking him like this?

Francis narrows his eyes. “I interrupted something didn’t I?” he asks, the faintest trace of amusement lingering behind his apologetic tone.

Alex laughs dryly. “Just a bit.”

Francis snorts. He sits down on one of the massive, snaking roots of the tree and takes a sip from the bottle in his hand. Alex can’t tell through the darkness, but he thinks he smells beer - and he certainly sees the way Francis’ well-muscled arm shifts under his shirt. He bites the inside of his cheek and screws his eyes shut. Being near Francis right now isn’t a very good idea, not when the arousal and adrenaline is still thrumming through him like it is. John spent nearly a quarter of an hour rhapsodising over how much he likes this guy, and Alex is at risk of throwing himself at anyone who spares him a second glance right about now.

“Sorry about that,” Francis says, and passes him the bottle. Alex shrugs and takes a drink, feels Francis’ eyes on him as he swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His leg won’t stay still. He’s practically vibrating with drunken need and his hand trembles as he passes the bottle back.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alex says gruffly. “You’re just worse for cockblocking than John’s dad.”

Francis lets out a loud, genuine laugh and Alex feels his lips twitch. He glances at the other boy, sucks on his lip as he takes in the dark silhouette of powerful arms and thighs only a few feet away from him. Like everything else that John has that Alex wants for himself, Francis seems too good to be true, incongruously perfect against the reality Alex is familiar with. He wishes he could just reach out and touch, _take,_ like Francis is this world of wealth and influence incarnate. 

“You are in a bit of a state,” Francis concedes, and Alex shivers as that gaze rakes up his form, just as intense Alex’s own humming state of desperation. 

Shit.

If he had any sense left, he’d be scrambling up the muddy slope right now.

So why isn’t he?

“Well,” Alex rolls his shoulders, half irritated, half challenging, “Hadn’t planned to go back up there like this.”

Francis seems closer than before - but he’s sitting, and Alex realises _he’s_ the one who has stepped closer. Alex could reach out to touch him now, and he’d barely have to extend his arm. He can feel the aura of heat around him burning hotter again. He clutches his own hips, as though he can’t trust his hands to keep away from temptation on their own. 

Francis huffs, smirking. “You’d better not, or sweet little Jack will pester you to no end about who you’ve been messing around with.”

Alex swallows thickly. This mention of John shouldn’t send a hot pulse of excitement and fierce envy through him - but it does. It takes his arousal spinning to a dizzying height, this realisation that it’s precisely _because_ John wants Francis so badly that Alex is this turned on. 

Alex turns to face Francis fully now, releasing his hands and shifting closer to him. He isn’t sure what is possessing him - the drunken bravado he knows well by now, or the mad arousal that makes him rash and overconfident, or this bone-deep jealousy driving him to - at last - steal something from his over-privileged foster brother. 

“You owe me,” he says, trying to look intent and serious. 

Francis raises an eyebrow, looking down at him with a sly, inviting smile. “I do, do I?”

Alex curses himself, but reaches out and places a hand on Francis’ knee. “You said yourself,” he breathes, trailing his fingers up slowly, “I can’t go back up there like _this._ ”

Francis stretches out his arm and runs his hand down the side of Alex’s waist. His touch is torturously light. Alex doesn’t want gentle. He needs hands on him. Friction. Heat.

Before any doubt can creep in, he steps in closer, grabs onto Francis’ shoulder and throws himself into his lap. Francis lets out a soft grunt of surprise and grabs Alex’s waist with both hands to steady him. The broad span of his fingers pressing their heat into Alex’s skin through his shirt… fuck, it’s intoxicating.

“You asshole,” Alex breathes, half laughing. “I was about to get laid before you came along.”

One of Francis’ hands untucks his shirt roughly from his pants and slides up to touch his bare skin, blunt fingernails scraping along his abdomen deliciously. Alex groans and rocks into the touch, pressing his forehead against Francis’.

Francis laughs and makes to pull away. “Do you want me to call Kitty back? I can go?”

Alex groans, dropping his hands from Francis’ shoulders to grip the front of his shirt instead. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“If you say so,” he murmurs, and his hand darts out to grab Alex’s thigh and maneuver him to straddle his lap, their bodies suddenly pressed so tightly together that Francis must feel the fire racing under Alex’s skin.

He lets out a gasp as Francis dips his head, their foreheads bumping together, and clasps either side of his face. His palms are hot, and he feels so powerful, so in control, so all-encompassing, that Alex allows a single high, needy whine to escape his mouth before Francis presses forward to kiss him.

Alex’s head is spinning, and now he isn’t sure where the arousal and exhilaration ends and the alcohol begins. He opens his mouth to drink Francis in. The taste of beer is overwhelming, though he’s sure his own lips taste as badly of whiskey. There’s the hot, insistent press of a tongue in his mouth, Francis’ teeth scraping against his lower lip and then biting down hard. Alex moans and for a glorious, confused minute, all he knows is the musky smell of Francis’ sweat and the bruising grip of hands around his face.

Then Francis shifts his knee a little higher to press it hard against Alex’s crotch. He laughs breathlessly as Alex whimpers and clutches at his shoulders.

“Oh, Kitty’s far too sweet to give you what you need,” Francis growls, holding Alex tightly to him now and grinding his thigh insistently up against Alex’s cock. The slow, inescapable drag of the thigh up and down, torturously increasing and relinquishing pressure, is pure, perfect agony.

Alex tries to laugh, but his lungs are empty and all he can manage is a choked groan as Francis presses his lips to his throat and starts to suck, hard.

God! Any more of this and he’s going to come in his pants.

“Oh my god, Francis--”

Francis releases the flesh of Alex’s throat. He can feel the faint sting of a hickey forming there and groans again at the thought of having to hide it later from Henry. 

From John.

“Fuck, I need--” To stop? To leave? To--

“My hand?” Francis asks, and Alex doesn’t have to open his eyes to see his broad grin. He feels one large, firm hand press hard over his erection and bucks up into the touch, the icy night air burning his lungs as he draws in rapid, shallow breaths. “Well?” Francis asks, and the pressure lets up as he waits for a response.

“Fuck, yes!” Alex groans, panting eagerly, and Francis finally - finally - pulls open his fly and fumbles for the waistband of his boxers. 

“Desperate little puppy-dog, aren’t you?” Francis hums, suddenly more mocking than amused, but Alex can’t protest the description.

He sucks in a sharp breath when Francis’ hand touches his bare flesh. It feels fucking incredible and Alex has to bite hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from giving them away with his frantic moans - since they are just a few hundred yards from the others.

Fuck. The others. 

John is right up there, just past the treeline. The countdown to the new year will be starting soon, and he’s probably rejoined the festivities by now, talking with Martha and Kitty and all the other straight-laced, chattering kids milling around. 

While Francis’ hand curls sinfully around Alex’s cock.

“You’ve got a hand too, don’t you?” Francis’ voice is rough with arousal and his words shake Alex out of his daze. He kisses Francis hard and, as Francis bites again at his now throbbing lower lip, Alex fingers find their way to the hard press at the front of his pants.

Francis doesn’t stroke him properly until Alex has pushed his own hand into his boxers and wrapped it tightly around his length. 

Then, Francis’ kiss is all tongue and teeth and the sharp copper sting on Alex’s lip when Francis bites it just hard enough. 

Fuck - John wouldn’t be able to handle _this._ John would want tender, reverent touches and sweet words. Not Francis, who has to leave marks to signify his conquest wherever he puts his hands or his mouth. Why _should_ Alex shun Francis, when he suits John so poorly and him so well? 

They’re breathing in tandem as Francis finally strokes him with purpose. There’s little slickness and even though Alex knows he’ll be raw later, the tiny bites of friction only amplify every other sensation of not enough - too much - Francis’ mouth - Francis’ hand. 

There’s no technique to how they touch each other. They’re both drunk and their touches are fumbled and uncoordinated, Francis’ grip just a bit too rough for comfort but all the more delicious for it. Alex is doing half the work, writhing in Francis’ lap and bucking his hips to fuck into the hot, tight grip. The world is tilted and blurry, and the heavy breathing in his ear is the only sound he can hear, almost like it’s inside his own head. 

Then Francis’ phone buzzes in his pocket and the vibration goes straight through Alex, jerking him back from Francis’ lips. 

“Fuck, my friends’ll be looking for me,” Francis mutters, but his hand around Alex doesn’t slow. “Just fucking get off already.”

“I’m so close, please--” Alex groans, pressing his face into Francis’ neck and tightening his own grip around Francis’ cock.

Then Francis’ lips clamp again around a spot just south of his Adam's apple and suck hard as his grip tightens and his hand begins to stroke Alex feverishly. 

Alex comes first, clenching his jaw shut and closing his eyes as he spills into Francis’ hand, a dangerous cry held back only by his last vestiges of self-awareness. The world goes white for a moment. Francis follows him not even a second later, one hand clenching hard around a fistful of Alex’s hair and jerking in Alex’s grip. When Alex comes back down, his face is burning in the cold air, and his stomach and hand are uncomfortably sticky with his own rapidly cooling release. 

They both sit there in silence for several long moments, steam curling upwards between them as their hot breath meets the icy air. Alex starts to grow increasingly aware of the discomfort of this position; his shins pressed into the gnarled tree root, the unpleasant cold damp spot at the hem of his shirt.

“I have to get back,” Francis says, all business, reaching between them to tuck himself back into his pants. Alex nods, getting onto unsteady feet. It has to be nearly midnight. How long have they been down here?

Francis wipes his hand clean on the wet grass. Alex follows suit. 

“I bet you shook up the Laurens household a fair bit,” Francis comments, as Alex fumbles to neaten his shirt and hair.

Alex shrugs, smiling wryly and thinking of the weed, the dinner table arguments, Henry watching him tremble in the lap of that congressman. 

“What makes you say that?” he asks, playing at naivety and turning around to face Francis properly. He grips Alex by the waist, and some of the brief awkwardness dissipates at the renewed rough handling.

“A little slut like you?” Francis purrs, and there’s a sharpness in his tone that wasn’t there before. “Poor Jackie must be drooling at your heels.”

Alex rolls his eyes, trying to make it clear he’s unperturbed by the lewd words, because he knows Francis is trying to psych him out. 

“Hardly. Not after _me,_ anyway.”

Fuck. Why did he have to say that?

Francis raises an eyebrow, but his smirk is knowing. “Hmm. Getting Jackie into bed is going to be a sweet reward. But you’re good enough for a quick fuck in the meantime, aren’t you?”

He lets go of Alex and pulls out his phone, starting back up the slope to the rest of the party. 

“I’m sure you’ll see me around,” Francis says in a bored voice, his back already turned as he walks away into the darkness.

Alex tries to contrive an equally nonchalant tone. “I guess.”

He waits a few minutes before heading back himself. He takes a few more swigs from the bottle of beer Francis left behind to push back the slightly sharper focus his vision is taking and the rough, unpleasant itch in the back of his throat. 

When he finally finds John, sitting on a blanket of jackets with half a dozen other people that Alex doesn't know, it’s a few minutes to midnight.

“Alex!” John looks relieved, and shifts aside to make room for Alex on someone’s grass stained Burberry suit jacket.

“Hey, you finally decided to come socialise,” Alex laughs, nudging John in the ribs and swallowing down the tremor that threatens his voice.

John raises an eyebrow, “I’ve been around for the last hour. The real question is who you were smooching in the bushes.”

Alex bites his lip, tries to turn his grimace into something smug and evasive. “I shouldn’t kiss and tell.”

John raises his eyebrows, and shifts like he wants to sling an arm over Alex’s shoulders before he thinks better of it and grips his hands together in his lap instead. Someone begins to stick fireworks into the soft earth a few hundred yards away.

“I heard Kitty Livingston was nowhere to be found around the same time you were hiding down by the lake.”

It’s a relief to hear this rumour has already made its way to John. Alex doesn’t want to say anything that will upset Kitty, but it isn’t a lie that they kissed. He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk. John pats him on the back awkwardly.

“Good for you, anyway,” John says. “She’s sweet. But - shit! Only twenty seconds!”

They all stand up eagerly, and Alex sees some fidgeting hands and subtle shifts as people remember the tradition of the midnight kiss. He sticks next to John, who puts a hand on his shoulder, figuring he’ll just get a hug out of it - it would feel too weird to kiss anyone else now, with his lip raw and throbbing.

The fireworks hiss and screech into the sky as it turns midnight, and Alex watches them, enthralled as always by the spectacle. But that means he’s too distracted to do anything except watch in slow-motion horror as Francis - who has sidled up, unnoticed, on John’s other side - reaches a hand to the side of John’s jaw, and presses a laughing kiss to his cheek.

“Happy new year, Jackie,” he murmurs sweetly.

John immediately turns every shade of red that’s ever been invented. He looks up at Francis with a panicked smile and doesn’t even have the composure to return the wish - but Alex feels the hand on his shoulder gripping painfully tight.

Then John looks down at the ground, his expression midway between a smile and a cringe, and Alex catches Francis’ eye. Francis doesn’t look remotely embarrassed or guilty about what he’s done. He raises a cocky eyebrow, the sweet smile curling into a crueller one.

Alex narrows his eyes. What the fuck does Francis think he’s playing at?

Whatever it is, John looks like he might faint, so Alex slides an arm around his waist and leads him off to another group of kids who are laughing and hugging and clapping each other on the back. 

What surprises Alex most is that, even when John leans in and whispers a breathless _thanks,_ guilt barely registers as one of the emotions swirling around inside him. John has plenty. He doesn’t need to have Francis too - and judging by everything he’s learned about darling Frankie this evening, Alex may just have done John a massive favour. 


	17. Chapter 17

Alex has a love-hate relationship with his case worker.

He’s lucky to have one assigned to him who seems to give the bare minimum of shits about her job, but she’s still a part of the incredibly broken system, and therefore someone he treats with a healthy dose of skepticism. So when the one-year anniversary of his arrival at the Laurenses comes around, a few days before what everyone thinks is his eighteenth birthday, he sleeps fitfully on the nights leading up to the visit and finds himself snappish and on edge. 

It doesn’t help that John makes himself scarce, taking away Alex’s one fail-safe way of calming his nerves. Alex worries at first that he might have picked up on the Francis thing, but decides that’s unlikely - because when he _does_ see John, his foster brother is all eager smiles. He’s probably going through another of his weird moods, not surprising considering that John is catching up on about six years of teenage rebellion in record time.

But Alex needn’t have worried about the visit. The case worker comes through on a Saturday morning, in deference to Henry’s schedule, and the three of them sit down together in the sunroom. Alex sneaks one of Harry’s preppiest sweaters from the clean laundry - a scratchy forest-green one - and puts it on over a shirt and nice pants.

When the visit starts, Alex dissolves into the furniture as much as he can, watching with some amusement at how starstruck his case worker is to be in a senator’s presence. The two of them engage in a bit of small talk before she finally remembers him.

“Oh, but we’re here to talk about Mr Hamilton, of course,” she says.

“Frankly,” Henry says with paternal gruffness. “Alexander has been an exemplary addition to our household.” Alex looks up at Henry with a hesitant smile, eyebrows raised. Henry looks back and smiles kindly.

Wow - he’s good. Even from this close, Alex picks up only the barest glimmer of the predatory aspect underneath the Senator’s veneer. That’s only because he’s looking for it - and looking he is, because there’s something so thrilling in the fact that Alex can look into his eyes in the safety of his case worker’s presence and see a hint of that dark, heated _something_ beneath the surface. It’s terrifying - but not altogether in a bad way.

“No - ah, disciplinary or behavioural issues that you would like me to note?”

Drugs, Alex thinks. Alcohol. Underage sexual misconduct - not least of which is coming on to Henry himself. Fights at school. Tarnishing John. Hacking into Henry’s email.

“Nothing at all,” Henry says smoothly. “Honestly, Alexander has been a model child.”

“And how would you characterise your stay?” she asks, turning to him.

“Oh, excellent,” he says at once, as though he hasn’t carefully planned every word. “It’s such a privilege to be here. The school and the living situation and the whole family, it’s-- I got really lucky.”

“I daresay my Jack has grown rather attached to you, Alexander,” Henry muses as he puts a gentle hand on Alex’s shoulder.

Alex shrugs, in part to cover up the full-body shiver that the sudden contact elicits. “He’s taken good care of me.”

The case worker nods thoughtfully and makes a note. “And the big question now, of course, is how we proceed. You will be eighteen in a few days, Mr Hamilton, and therefore will no longer be required to be under the guardianship of the state.”

Oh, he knows that; he probably knows the laws better than she does. He hasn’t spoken about this visit with Henry except in the most cursory terms to arrange the logistics, but Alex knows what they both want, and understands the role he needs to play to gratify Henry. So he twists his hands nervously in his lap and clears his throat. “Do you think… Is there any chance I could - well, stay? Just a little longer? Until the end of the school year?” 

“We do hate to disrupt a child’s living situation at such a critical time,” the case worker agrees. “Especially considering your excellent academic performance, Mr Hamilton.”

“Such a bright boy, isn’t he?” Henry says with a proud little chuckle. “He has quite the voracious appetite.” He squeezes Alex’s shoulder and pauses just long enough that Alex starts to go red, before he adds, “I don’t think there’s a single book in my library he hasn’t read yet.”

“We find that academic pursuits are the first to falter where there is stress in the home situation, so that is lovely to hear.” She makes a happy little note on her clipboard. “It isn’t unusual to extend a placement in a case like this, especially considering that you have indicated a willingness to support his tertiary education as well. What do you say, Senator?”

“I think that’s up to the boy. Alexander?” Henry looks down at him, and although the smile is perfectly warm and decent, Alex knows at once that he is being commanded to beg.

He doesn’t hesitate - a little shame for a decent home and a college education is no price to pay. If it wouldn’t look entirely obscene, he’d be on his knees. “Oh, please, sir,” he murmurs, face tilted down but eyes up, lip sucked into his mouth shyly. “I’ve loved every second of my time here, so if there was any way I could convince you to keep me… I’d-- I don’t know how I’d ever be able to show my gratitude.” But I know where I’d start, Alex thinks, and flicks his eyes suggestively downward for just a second. It’s a risk, but a calculated one. If Henry had serious enough objections to his awkward flirtations, this would have been the perfect opportunity to get rid of him. 

Henry’s smile turns fond and his hand squeezes Alex’s shoulder reassuringly - or at least, that’s how it’s meant to look. Luckily the case worker can’t see the blistering fire this causal touch is igniting all along his nerves. “Please don’t mention it. We would love to have you, for as long as _you’d_ like to be here.”

“That would be…” Alex pretends to choke up then. 

The case worker seems to be eating this bullshit up. Maybe, he figures, she’s wilfully ignoring the blatant fakery to make her job just that little bit easier. That would be typical of the low-level bureaucrats that have always made his life hell and slept easy afterwards, dreaming nice things about how they’ve helped poor, sad little kids like him.

“Well, I must say, Mr Hamilton, it’s lovely to see that we’ve managed to find a placement that suits you so well. I see no reason why we can’t formally extend the guardianship for another six months, if Senator Laurens is willing.”

Henry chuckles and nods.

“Oh - thank you!” Alex gushes, half giddy, turning between the case worker and Henry like he can’t decide who deserves more of his gratitude. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a real place to call home.”

Henry chuckles fondly. “You certainly have become a part of the family.”

There’s a bit more talk, mostly some formalities and some things for Henry to sign. Henry’s grip doesn’t leave his shoulder until he leans in to pick up the pen and clipboard. Alex is on the edge of his seat, one hand gripping the underside of his thigh —the only external way he can channel some of the heat building below his navel.

They see the case worker to the door and smile and wave goodbye until she’s all the way down the long gravel driveway to where the valet has readied her car.

As soon as Henry closes the door, the pleasant grin dissolves off his face. Alex immediately reaches down and pulls off the scratchy sweater - he’s burning up, his cheeks rapidly reddening. There’s a momentary, heavy silence. Alex is still breathless, from the incongruous heat in that touch and the renewed tension that had crackled between him and Henry.

“Thanks,” Alex says, trying to sound cool and unaffected but suspecting he doesn’t come across entirely convincing.

Henry narrows his eyes for a second, nods, and turns to head back to his office. “You have earned your place for now, Alexander. But be sure not to disappoint me.”

\-----

Alex doesn’t think much of it when, on the morning of his birthday, John offers to drive them to school. It’s not unusual for them to go separately from the other kids, especially if they have something to do after school - and with the way John has been grinning mysteriously all through breakfast, he knows something is up; even Martha gives him a patented disdainful scowl at his excessive fidgeting. The meal passes uneventfully otherwise. No one else remembers the occasion - or at least no one mentions it - and that suits him just fine.

But Alex does start to get suspicious when John casually slings a duffle bag into the back seat and gives him a covert, unhelpful wink as they climb in. And then he knows for certain that something’s up when they don’t take the turnoff to school. 

“Uh, am I being abducted?” he jokes.

“Sort of,” John says with a grin. “Unless you _do_ want to go to school on your birthday after all?”

Alex laughs. “Saint John, skipping a day? I don’t believe it.”

He sees John’s smile falter a little at the nickname, but he brushes it off. “I asked myself, what’s the most _Alex_ way to spend the day, and this is what I came up with.”

“Are you saying I’m a terrible influence? And if so, I am fucking delighted that I’m corrupting you.” He leans back in his seat and puts one foot on the dashboard. “So what’s the plan?”

John flaps a hand at his leg, but instead of taking it down, Alex just laughs and shifts it out of range.

“Well, first we’ll start with a _proper_ breakfast. And then - wait, do you want me to tell you, or do you just wanna go with the flow?”

“Surprise me,” Alex says with a contented hum. “I consent to everything.”

\-----

They stop at a real southern diner close to the old city centre, where the purpose of the duffle bag becomes clear. John ducks into the bathroom and emerges wearing a well-fitting polo shirt and jeans instead of his school uniform, and then hands the bag to Alex. John’s made a good choice for him too, a button-down, cardigan and casual slacks - he must have snuck into Alex’s room this morning to grab them.

They order bottomless coffee, waffles stacked with bacon, fried eggs, pie - John just keeps getting more and more things until they’re leaning back in their seats, stuffed and grinning. When they’re done eating, John orders them some sodas, then roots around in his duffle again. He quietly produces something that looks suspiciously like a hip flask, then slips his glass out of sight to pour in a healthy splash, doing the same to Alex’s in turn.

“God, I _have_ corrupted you,” Alex says with a delighted smirk as he takes a long gulp of his vodka-laced soda. “Your dad would murder me if he saw how I’ve tarnished his golden boy.”

John snorts. “Honestly, fuck him. It was way past time for a bit of rebelling.”

Alex leans back in his seat and smiles fondly at John. Exactly a year ago, his foster brother was bowing and scraping and whispering hushed instructions to him about how not to piss Henry off. And now? Well, Alex is very pleased for whatever role he played in getting John to loosen up like this.

John catches him staring and says, a little self-consciously, “What?”

Alex shrugs. “Just thinking how much I like you, that’s all.”

“Oh.” John goes a little pink; it’s too soon for that to be the fault of vodka.

“So,” Alex says briskly to diffuse the slightly awkward moment. “What’s first on our list?”

\-----

If someone had told Alex that, exactly one year after getting off his budget flight from New York, he’d be riding around historic Charleston in a horse-drawn carriage and giggling surreptitiously with his drunk foster brother, he would have laughed in their face.

But here he is, having a grand time, and really it’s all down to the company. John tells him wildly improbable - and therefore likely true - stories about the landmarks they pass, and they put on silly period hats and take ridiculous selfies pretending to be gentlemen driving around town. 

Then they take a ghost tour of the old jail, but mostly they use the dark corners as an excuse to drain John’s flask, and they leave drunker and gigglier than they were when they went in.

After that they just walk around town and make fun of the people and store fronts they pass, though Alex studiously avoids going into any shops just in case John uses that as an excuse to get him a present - which is something Alex has strictly forbidden after the extravagant coat he got for Christmas. 

Then John makes an ‘aha!’ sound and points across the street at their next destination.

“Ice cream? In _January?_ Are you serious?” Alex starts laughing as John steers him by the shoulder towards the little café on the corner, but there is a real note of incredulity in his tone.

John shrugs. “It’s seriously good ice cream. I wasn’t going to wait until the summer. Once you try it, you’ll agree.”

John holds the door open for Alex and they enter the little shop. It’s like all of the trendy, touristy places along the main shopping street, done up in pastels and cute graphics. Alex shoots John an amused look, but before he can get his snide comment in, his foster brother is calling out excitedly to someone behind the bar.

“Tim! You work here?”

John pulls Alex towards the counter, grinning broadly at the young man standing behind the nearest till. He looks about college age, maybe two or three years older than John, and he’s wearing the plain, uncomfortable-looking uniform of the store.

“John. Hey,” he greets, somewhat less enthusiastically, reaching out over the counter to give John a one-armed hug.

Alex looks from the young man to John, smiling politely as he tries to discern exactly what this relationship is. None of the rich kids in Charleston have part time jobs at ice cream parlours. If they work at all, it’s bumming around at daddy’s office for summer work experience.

John pulls Alex nearer. “Tim, this is Alex. He’s staying with us. It’s been, shit, a year already.”

Alex smiles tightly and holds out a hand. Tim shakes it, his smile equally insincere and his eyes a little narrowed.

“A whole year, huh? Nice to meet you,” Tim says politely, and Alex meets that shrewd, searching look with as blank a stare as he can muster.

“Tim lived with us for a while, like, three years ago,” John supplies lightly. 

Oh. Alex looks away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

Fuck.

A minimum-wage job at an ice cream shop? Is that really what a Laurens-family foster kid has amounted to? And John is acting like this is normal. _Expected._

John chatters excitedly at Tim as he wipes down the countertops and messes around with the ice cream machine behind the bar. John seems blissfully unaware of it, but Alex can tell this kid isn’t pleased to see them. There’s a hollow, almost automatic note behind his one-word responses and short laughs. 

“And Harry’s in middle school now, would you believe it? Oh! And Martin, remember him? I think he left a few weeks after you came, he just started at the DA’s office up in Charlotte.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Good for him. Guess SCU worked out after all.”

Alex can’t fathom how John doesn’t hear the note of bitterness in Tim’s voice. When he looks up sharply and meets the young man’s eyes for a moment, Alex sees a note of recognition there — Tim sees that Alex isn’t quite as oblivious as John.

“Well, yeah, dad was disappointed he didn’t get into Georgetown - but it worked out, huh? Speaking of, do you still hang around with any of the others? Carlos? Samuel?”

Something in Tim’s posture changes suddenly, and he looks up at John with genuine astonishment. John’s smile drops and he glances at Alex, who’s standing a little further back, watching.

“What is it?” John asks carefully.

Tim is no longer looking at him. He’s clattering violently around with the ice cream machine behind the bar, his jaw set tightly.

“I thought you’d have heard about Carlos,” he says through gritted teeth.

John looks anxious. “No, is he alright? Didn’t he start at community college last fall?”

Tim stops, still facing away from them, and drops the cloth in his hand.

“Shit, John— I can’t believe I’m the one telling you this. He died. Like three months ago.”

John freezes, and Alex watches the two of them without drawing a breath. The giddy excitement that had seized them both in the car, from skipping school, drinking at the diner and messing around at the cheesiest tourist traps, has been snuffed out under the harsh light of this news. 

Alex feels sick. What kind of twisted failings has Henry buried to maintain his pristine, philanthropic image? Why is Alex only now hearing of former foster kids who have wound up working minimum wage jobs, struggling by at community colleges, or else _dead?_

Why hasn’t he even _asked_ these questions before? 

John’s voice is low and strained. “What? Carlos? But— how?” 

Tim presses a hand to his face and draws in a deep breath. “Uh, drugs, they think. Roommate found him. He’d taken a load of shit that didn’t mix well.”

John is silent for a long moment. Alex sees his hand twitch as though to clutch something, and he glances around for Alex. 

John’s voice comes out small and hurt. “I— that’s awful, I can’t believe I didn’t hear.”

Tim shrugs. “Not the kind of thing people talk about at holiday galas, is it?”

John winces and Tim hitches a smile onto his face, suddenly all business.

“Well, do you guys want cones or tubs?”

They order and pay numbly. Outside on the sidewalk, Alex scuffs the side of his shoe against the concrete and avoids John’s eyes. Tim had bid them goodbye with all the sterile, false friendliness of someone desperate to see the backs of them.

“Are you okay?” John asks him as he nudges him gently. Alex looks up and tries to smile.

“Yeah. That was a bit weird but— uh… how’s the ice cream?”

John looks relieved, though his voice comes out strained. “Good. And there isn’t a queue when it’s the middle of winter. Yours?”

Alex hasn’t tried his yet. He’s still thinking about Tim, and about this kid who left Henry’s home and somehow ended up dead a year or two later. 

Is he being paranoid? Is it fair, even reasonable, to blame on Henry what might be the inevitable fallout of the foster care system? Alex knows better than to assume that this kid didn’t have problems before coming to stay with the Laurenses. Drug abuse is hardly unique.

He stares down at his cup of ice cream. He’d let John choose for him because, staring at rows of different flavours, he’d just felt callous. He can’t even think about eating with this news so fresh in his mind.

“Oh. I didn’t get a spoon. I should go back.”

John turns around. “Ah shit, let me hold it. It won’t melt. It’s freezing.”

“Stay here,” Alex tells him, placing a hand on his chest. “I’ll be back in a second.”

He hurries back towards the shop but slows down as he reaches the door and opens it cautiously. It’s still empty. Tim is sitting on a chair behind the counter, doing something on his phone. He looks up when Alex enters and narrows his eyes.

“I forgot to grab a spoon.” Alex explains, approaching the counter. Tim shrugs and ducks down to rummage below the bar.

“Did you know him well?” Alex asks, in spite of himself. His heart is hammering, and when Tim straightens up, his eyebrows are furrowed angrily and there’s a hard set to his jaw that hadn’t been there when John was with Alex.

“Well enough to know he shouldn’t have ended up where he did.”

Alex takes the plastic spoon Tim offers him without looking at it.

“What really happened?” he asks, with an audible touch of desperation in his tone that Tim catches.

He laughs bitterly. “Senator Laurens _happened_. Used him up and threw him out. Might as well have put the needle in his arm himself.”

Alex feels the hairs on his arms standing up as a chill goes through him. Suddenly he feels like Tim is judging him, looking at him like he’s some oblivious, out-of-place upstart.

“He’s going to put me through college,” Alex says firmly. “It’s-- You know how it is. It’s too good to pass up.”

Tim raises his eyebrows and something in his face turns mocking. “He must like you, if he’s kept you for a whole year. He liked Carlos too. Just has a… funny way of showing it.”

Alex feels his fist clench involuntarily by his side and turns away, feeling Tim’s eyes on him as he walks out.

John is waiting for him outside, his arms folded tight and his head ducked against the chilly breeze off the ocean. He’s finished his ice cream already, and he throws the empty cup in the trash as Alex approaches.

“Hey, got one?”

Alex smiles and holds up the spoon but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t trust his voice to come out steady. John seems to sense his discomfort and puts an arm around him, holding him tightly to his side as they walk towards the promenade.

“Carlos was clever but, uh— volatile. His case worker got him therapy and stuff. I mean, I wasn’t around for a lot of it and I was still a bit young to really understand what was going on.”

Alex can hear the anxious, defensive note in John’s voice. _He was fucked up when he got to us. What could we have done?_

It’s the same thing Alex told himself inside the ice cream shop, desperate to believe that whatever killed that kid wasn’t a product of the Laurens household, of _Henry_.

Alex presses his cheek against John’s shoulder and draws in a deep breath. “It’s been years since you saw him. You can’t beat yourself up for not knowing.”

John shrugs and tightens his arm around Alex’s shoulder. “I know. We weren’t close.”

They walk in silence for a stretch, John’s hand rubbing gentle circles into Alex’s upper arm. The ice cream was good, but it sits heavily in his stomach now and it’s made Alex shiver. He bites hard on the inside of his cheek and tucks his hands into the inside of his coat.

John smiles and takes one in his larger hand. “You need gloves.”

Alex groans. “I shouldn’t! We’re in South Carolina. Besides, I don’t need anything else bought for me.”

John chuckles and closes his hand around Alex’s. It’s improbably warm and his grip is tight without being painful. “You _can_ tell me if you need something. You don’t have to be such a martyr.”

“Saint John and Alex the martyr. Must be fate.”

Alex’s hands are warming up properly now, but he doesn’t want to extract them from John’s grip. John squeezes gently.

“I think it is.”

———

John steps off the main path leading around the Battery, hops the railing and picks his way through the shrubs, leading Alex around to sit behind a low stone wall - where kids from school come to enjoy the view and smoke, drink or make out in private. He’s spent a few awkward evenings down here with them, mostly sitting in silence as they boasted about their romantic adventures or pretended to get drunk. John knows what it looks like when you’re pretending. 

But this moment is much nicer. It would be perfect if not for the little knot that tightened his stomach earlier and that hasn’t quite unravelled.

He had barely known Carlos, who’d come to stay while he was away for the summer in Geneva, and by the time John had returned the wheels had already mostly come off. Their paths had crossed for a few weeks at most. So it’s not _him_ that John is mourning.

Instead, he’s suffused with a formless worry for Alex. Maybe it’s because of how similar he and Carlos are - or _were_. Exceedingly smart and hot-tempered, with the same darting eyes that take in more than just what’s on the surface. Volatile. Battered by circumstance. But Alex is strong in a way that Carlos never was - or at least he wasn’t any more by the time John had met him.

And on a more selfish note, he’s annoyed that the light mood of their day has been spoiled, because he has some stuff he wants to say - that he’s been building himself up to say - and is now unsure if he still should. 

“Here we are,” he says, dropping down onto a patch of dry-looking grass and trying to sound more cheerful than he feels. From their vantage point, the bay stretches out before them. “Good view, eh?”

Alex sits down and is silent for a moment, looking out over the water. “Yeah.” 

“Well, now you’ve seen all the Charleston highlights. Congrats.”

Alex huffs. “Hmm. You know, it kinda reminds me of St Croix.”

John’s not quite sure what to make of that. Alex is so cagey about his home town that he can’t even parse whether the sentiment is positive. So he replies neutrally. “Oh yeah? I guess a lot of the buildings are from the same period.”

Alex nods. “And… well, I guess I haven’t had as good a birthday as this one since then. So, thanks.”

The sentiment is genuine, and John grins broadly, but he also picks up the slight distracted edge in Alex’s tone. He’s probably also still mulling over their earlier encounter.

“You deserve it.” He pauses for a second. “Do you… miss it?”

Alex hesitates for a moment before answering, his brow furrowed. “Uh— I guess I miss mom, and James and the Stevenses. The place itself? Some of it was beautiful, but it’s pretty poor. Not a lot of opportunities.”

John slides his arm around Alex - reaching for his waist, rather than his shoulder as he would normally do - and tugs him closer. It’s nice to have a reminder that Alex is here, alive and safe, and this way John can feel the reassuring rise and fall of his ribs as he breathes. “And is Charleston starting to feel a little like it could be home, too?”

And that’s when John realises what a truly complicated question that is - because he’s not even sure what answer he’d give. It would probably depend on who’s asking.

Alex leans into John’s touch and gives a small shrug. “It’s--” He cuts off. “You’re here, so it’s more home than anywhere else.”

John leans his cheek against the top of Alex’s head and hums. Yeah. That sounds about right to him. 

Still trying to dispel their maudlin mood, he asks, “Okay - so. What was the best thing from last year? Favourite moment?”

Alex laughs and rolls his eyes. “Getting all nostalgic, huh? I guess… okay, that night early on, when we got drunk? That was fun. After that, I could relax enough to actually enjoy myself.”

John inhales in surprise, a little too sharply. “Ah. Right.” That night has blessed and plagued him constantly. For a moment he doesn’t know what else to say.

Alex clears his throat. “You know, before that, this place felt so stuffy and strict - but getting drunk with you, ah, demystified it a bit.”

John chuckles. “Only you could say it like that. But - I’m glad. I think we have a lot more in common than we think. And I’m happy I could play some role in you settling in.”

Alex squeezes John’s shoulder tightly. “You played the starring role. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d have done if I got here and Maggie was the oldest.”

John snorts. “Double homicide - and that’s only if you didn’t take our charming Harry down in the crossfire.” He nuzzles his cheek against Alex’s hair, breathing him in. It’s masochistic to allow himself touches like this, sure, but he’s not above a little pain if it means he can be close to Alex - and Alex certainly seems to like the attention. “Can I make a confession?”

Alex goes tense. “Yeah, sure,” he says, a little fearfully.

John laughs softly at that. “I know you said I wasn’t allowed to get you a present.”

Alex explodes. “Fuck, yeah, that’s _exactly_ what I said, John!”

“But, in fact,” John says smugly, “Your exact words were - ‘don’t you dare spend a cent on any presents, asshole’.”

Alex groans. “Yeah. I remember! Jesus, you’re the _worst._ Let’s just get this over with.”

John pulls his arm away, but only so that he can grin down at Alex. “I didn’t break my promise. I spent precisely zero on it.”

Alex narrows his eyes. “Unusually devious for you, John.”

“Just helping you practice for law school,” he teases. “You have to be careful how you phrase things. But first!” He rummages around in his satchel.

Alex watches him intently. 

John smiles to himself as he produces a candle and a lighter. “You’ll get a cake later, but I figured you’d want to make your wish in private.” He lights it and holds it out.

Alex raises an eyebrow in mock annoyance but he closes his eyes anyway, his brows knitting together as he considers. After a moment, he blows out the candle with gusto.

John watches him intently, and raises an eyebrow. “Looks like you knew what you wanted.” 

“Yeah - well.”

John packs the candle away and lifts out a flat rectangular package, barely thicker than a small notebook. “Here. Happy birthday.”

Alex shoots him a fond, exasperated look and takes the package. “I-- I don’t-- Ugh. Just please say it isn’t anything really sappy.”

John shrugs mysteriously, trying to hide his confirming smile. He went back and forth on this one for the last two weeks, oscillating between thinking it was sweet and meaningful on one day, and trite and intrusive on the next. But after the day they’ve had, the things they’ve shared, it feels just right.

It only takes Alex a moment to open the paper and reach in. He stares at the watercolour painting on the piece of card for a few moments, and when he looks up at John, his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are shining.

“Lilies?”

“Yeah. I figured, if they were her favourite…” John smiles down at his own crossed legs, eyes a little distant as he thinks of his own mom. He’d have painted magnolias for her. 

Alex bites his lip. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I…” John hesitates. This is as good a chance as any to start saying the stuff he really needs to get off his chest. “I guess I just think about you a lot. Stuff like that sticks.”

Alex wraps his arms around John and buries his face in his shoulder, not saying a word.

John reaches his arms around too. “You’re family. Maybe the only family that really matters.”

Alex heaves a heavy, fractured sounding breath. “I’m too drunk for this shit.”

John huffs. “At least drunk makes it easier to be… honest.”

Alex looks up at John, and they’re so close John would just need to lean in a few inches to kiss him. “I love it, John, honestly. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

John’s eyes crinkle with sadness. “That’s crazy. You should expect the world, Alex.”

Alex laughs softly. “I think I’ll have to learn to, with you as my big brother, huh?”

“Count on it, little brother,” John replies, but for once the moniker is suffused with sadness. Reminding him of the line he’s drawn, and which side of it he needs to stay on.

Alex hides his face in John’s shoulder again and nuzzles further into his touch. “I wish we could stay out here.”

“Me too,” John says, resting his head on the top of Alex’s again. “Duty calls. Soon - but not quite yet.” He lets out a deep, heavy sigh. There are so many kinds of duty he’s burdened with. Looking after Alex is the only one he doesn’t despise. 

“Wish it would leave us alone.” Alex mumbles. “That should have been my wish.”

“If so, you would have just blown it by saying it out loud.” He laughs, blowing a hot breath over Alex’s scalp.

“I’m smarter than that, don’t worry.”

“Weren’t smart enough to lawyer up against the no-gifts thing.”

“Oh fine, from now on I’ll have an attorney on standby for specifically John-related nonsense.”

John huffs, then rubs his thumb along the side of Alex’s arm. “Deal. But for everything else?” He braces himself. “Just remember that I love you, and I’m here for you, no matter what.”

He slips it in, friendly and casual, so that there’s no way Alex will really pick up what he means. He feels equally better and worse for having said it. Hopefully he glossed over it so quickly that Alex didn’t even hear.

But Alex reaches his hand across to touch John’s hand, where it runs along his arm. “Ditto… Uh, love you too,” he murmurs, full of that wonderful, friendly, fraternal feeling John has worked for a year to instil. The best thing Alex could ever say to him, in the worst way imaginable.

His heart - traitor that it is - plummets to his feet. John squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and doesn’t respond. His throat is tight with self-inflicted pain. He can really only blame himself - because what else could he have expected?

Alex squeezes John’s hand and closes his eyes.

They sit together like that in silence for a little while, until John gathers himself again, shifts slightly and says, “We should probably get going.” His voice sounds rough, hoarse. But he’s boxed himself back up. Years of practice, after all.

Alex nods slowly and reluctantly releases John’s hand. “You’re right. Reckon we can sober up in time to face Henry?”

John just stares out at the view, then shrugs and sneers a little. “Honestly? I don’t care. Let him think whatever he wants.”

Alex gets to his feet and holds out a hand to John. “Well, it’s both of our funerals if we’re drunk _and_ late.”

“Late would be worse,” John agrees. He takes Alex’s hand and let’s himself get hauled up, then immediately gets his arm around Alex’s shoulders. As they start walking towards the car, he asks, “So. Did you have a good day?”

Alex grins. “Didn’t I say it was the best birthday in… oh, I don’t know, five years?”

“Yeah, I guess,” John says, feeling marginally lighter as he digs his fingers into Alex’s ribs teasingly. “Your college boyfriend or girlfriend is going to have to work hard to top that next year.”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “I’d rather reserve the day for you. You know me better than any dumb college kid could.”

John shrugs, but a pleased little smile curls the corner of his lips. “Okay. It’s a date.”


	18. Chapter 18

Francis adds an unwelcome complication to Alex’s web of Laurens family drama - but, for once, John himself offers the solution for managing it. After the kiss at new year’s, John uses every excuse imaginable not to be left alone with best-friend Frankie, so wherever Francis reaches out with plans for an outing or drops by for a visit, John begs Alex to join them or works out a way for the visit to take place at home.

Luckily, these meet-ups don’t happen often - Francis is finishing his senior year at a different school, and between their frantic cramming for finals, all of John’s extracurriculars and Henry’s watchfulness around curfew, there’s not much free time. But, like some sort of regency-era chaperone, Alex remains infuriatingly present when they do hang out, and ignores the confused and annoyed glares that Francis shoots him whenever John isn’t looking. 

The other reason Alex is grateful they don’t have to do this often is that watching John fumble and fluster his way through these outings is painful. If he had any intention of actually _allowing_ John to start something with Francis, he would have suggested a trip to the stables, where John is at his most confident and relaxed. But Alex doesn’t want to allow it, and John seems too terrified by the prospect for it to be any kind of good idea anyway, so instead he suffers through bland lunches and trips to the marina to look at yachts, and makes such a nuisance of himself when they play board games that even John occasionally has to murmur to him to dial it down. 

Afterwards, John inevitably comes to sit in his room and catalogues all of the embarrassing things he said or did, and Alex pretends to listen while he revises for his AP exams. Most of the supposed faux pas are not even things Alex noticed at the time, and he does feel a little guilty when he chooses to stay silent rather than to jump in and bolster his foster brother’s confidence. 

He’ll have enough time to do that when they hit college, he reasons, after Frankie and his rough, careless hands stop being an ever-present threat. 

\-----

The congressional budget session in February balances on a knife edge for a week before the budget is finally approved, averting a shutdown and allowing Henry to come home again for a few weeks. Other than brief glimpses over the Christmas holiday, his foster father has been away at work almost constantly since the start of December. 

Alex finds, with some surprise, that he misses not only the dangerous game he is trying to lure Henry into, but also the safer ones that take place across the low coffee table in Henry’s office or in the lounge - the chess games, and the complex verbal sparring that he has become much more adept at. He has several nice allusions he picked up from the books he got himself for Christmas that he has been itching to use.

But although he’s home, the senator is preoccupied and Alex doesn’t get invited for any chess games. He’s forced to make the most of the scant face-time he gets with Henry at breakfast, or occasionally at dinner, but it’s much harder to do with John grinding his jaw whenever he has to be in the same room as his father, and Martha shooting him disdainful glares at the exceedingly boring topics of conversation he raises.

He _needs_ Henry’s attention back on him. There are only two ways to do that - get Henry alone, which seems impossible right now, or leave a reminder of his presence somewhere Henry can’t ignore it. Somewhere private and meaningful, like his office.

The trouble is, Alex doesn't often have the opportunity to be in Henry's office alone. Only once was he allowed to enter unaccompanied to borrow a book, and he took the rare moment to linger a little. Of course, he’s been in there _with_ Henry a lot - playing games of all sorts, or getting furiously scolded over some incident at school or perceived act of insolence, but it's still a forbidden realm of the house. Henry's domain, heavy with the feel of him. 

An idea struck him only a few days ago, and he's been trying to think of a way to execute it ever since - and then Alex finally gets the chance to engineer a seemingly serendipitous moment for himself. At dinner, he mentions a book he wants to reference for an upcoming paper that he knows for a fact he saw in Henry's study, and his foster father waves his hand vaguely and gives him permission to take it.

As soon as Henry is finished - which signals the end of dinner, and the point at which everyone can leave the table - Alex hastens upstairs to his bedroom. He picks up a sweater he wore to school earlier from his laundry basket by the door and drapes it over his arm. It's green, recognisably his as it isn't a colour John or Harry wears often. And it’s from Sears, not some small bespoke or designer brand like most of the Laurens children wear.

He walks quickly and quietly down the hallway to Henry's office and opens the door with a tentative push. It's empty. On a weekend night, Henry usually drinks a little after dinner - and since the weather has been cold, he sits in the library and reads the newspaper. Alex has studied him enough to know his routine.

He lets his fingers glide across the gleaming shelves as he walks into the room, skimming the spines of the hundreds of books Henry keeps here - each expensive leather-bound title a symbol of his knowledge, his influence, his wealth. He places his sweater on the arm of Henry’s desk chair like an offering, innocuous enough that he could simply have had it under his arm as he browsed and dropped it there by accident, but easy enough to interpret as something more intentional if Henry chooses to do so. The same spot where Alex had sat down when he’d dared to kiss his foster father. 

He associates it now with that painfully humiliating but intense memory, when Henry’s lips had touched his for the first and only time. Alex is doing this for many reasons, the main one being the power and influence he'll gain if he proves successful in capturing the interest of his foster father. But the thrill of that contact? That alone would make it a worthwhile endeavour.

The bright green stands out against the dark leather, the first thing Henry will see when he enters the room later. Alex sidles over to the bookshelf, pulls the title he'd mention down from its place and takes a final look around the room. 

Later, he's lost in his thoughts in the shower, thinking of the jock he sometimes dresses next to in phys ed, one hand wrapped idly around himself. He's bored, understimulated - he'd thought going to private school would mean more difficult classes, more opportunities to challenge himself. Yet he's still always the smartest person in the room, still left itching for a real opportunity to prove himself.

He's hard now, thinking about watching that guy play football at the pep rally John dragged him to. He bites the inside of his cheek, recalling the image of a sweat-dampened shirt clinging to broad arms.

But then the boy in his imagination turns to meet Alex's gaze, and it's Henry's penetrating, impossibly heavy look in his eyes. Pure molten intensity, boring a hole into his most private, intimate thoughts.

Alex jerks and comes into his hand.

\-----

That Saturday, Alex tags along to the stables with John and Jemmy for some sort of horsey competition day.

“So, is this gonna be like a rodeo?” Alex asks in the car ride over, and apparently this is the wrong thing to say.

John shoots him a dark, confused look. “No way. Rodeos are awful. This is more like - you know sports days at school? Races, games, stuff like that? It’s all about teamwork between the horse and rider.”

“Oh. Right.” Alex smiles a little to himself at John’s vehemence. “Are there prizes?”

“Yeah!” Jemmy pipes up from the back seat. “You get a rosette and a gift card and everything. But mainly it’s about honour.”

“Honour?” Alex says, raising an eyebrow at John, who suddenly goes a little pink.

“Yeah!” Jemmy says again, leaning forward eagerly into the gap between the front seats. “Jack wins every year. He’s defending his title.”

“Is that so?” Alex asks, smiling more broadly and leaning back in his seat.

“It’s just some silly games,” John says with a shrug, but Alex can see by the determined line of his jaw that it means a lot more to him than that. 

\-----

A few hours and some confusing, mud-spattering games later, Alex walks up to where John has brought Monarch to a halt and allowed him to stretch his neck. John looks out of breath but very pleased; he has come first or second in all of the games.

“Nice going,” Alex says with a grin. “But I don’t know why _you_ look so tired. The horse is the one who did all the hard work there.”

Monarch turns his head, and Alex reaches out a flat palm and lets him snuffle at it. The horse breathes a hot gust of air against his hand, like he’s agreeing. 

John snorts. “You try it and see how easy it is.”

“Looks like you’re back in the lead too.”

“Yeah,” John says with a determined smile and a nod. “Just the flag race to go, and that’s usually a good one for us, unless this stupid thing decides that today’s one of those days where he’s spooked by flags.” But John reaches down and pets Monarch’s sweaty neck fondly.

Then Alex hears a commotion - a shout, and a clatter - and turns around to see what’s happening. He sees Charlie - one of those blonde rich-kid clones who’d tried to get into a fight with him - standing next to his horse, holding the reins in one hand and a whip in the other. Even Alex can see the horse looks unsettled. Its head is up and it’s leaning back on its haunches, like it’s trying to pull away. 

“Stupid fucking horse,” Charlie growls, then yanks down on the reins and smacks the whip against the horse’s neck. It makes a startled sound and tries to pull away again.

In a second, John kicks his feet out of the stirrups and jumps off his horse. He shoves the reins into Alex’s hands and storms across the muddy pitch.

“Oh shit,” Alex says, and Monarch pricks his ears.

“Hey!” John yells, advancing in a fury. Before Charlie can react, John yanks the whip out of his hand and throws it on the ground, then grabs him by the collar. 

“What the fuck?” Charlie growls. He lets go of the reins and the horse shies away. 

John pulls him closer, his face twisted with anger. “Why don’t you pick on someone who can fight back, coward?”

A few of the people standing around them turn to watch the altercation. 

Charlie puts both of his hands against John’s chest and shoves him away. “Get your hands off me.”

John is on him again in a second. “Not until I beat some sense into you, you fucking bully.”

Charlie laughs meanly, and his eyes flick to Alex. “Standing up for your little boyfriend, Jackie?”

“What?” John’s expression shifts to surprise for a moment. 

“Go suck a dick, fag,” Charlie spits.

Alex has seen John get into fights before, but he’s never seen him win one so quickly. John lets go with his right hand, then swings his elbow in a blistering arc right into the centre of Charlie’s face. Then when Charlie stumbles back in pain and surprise, John uses the leverage of his other hand to pull him off balance and face-first down into the mud.

He glares down, breathing hard, but then sighs. “Oh, grow up,” he growls, and then turns on his heel and stalks back towards where Alex and Monarch are standing. 

Underneath John’s furious frown, Alex can see the well-concealed fear and anxiety. But he knows this isn’t the time to try and address it - and even if he wanted to, John doesn’t give him a chance. Without meeting his eye, John tugs the reins away, vaults up into his saddle and digs his heels in. Monarch trots off with a grunt.

Alex sighs and crosses his arms, watching as Charlie wipes at his bloody nose and then winces in pain, before hauling himself up and storming off in another direction. Then he spots Jemmy standing awkwardly nearby, so Alex waves him over, and then ruffles his sweaty curls before putting a hand on his shoulder. Jemmy’s been growing his hair out, probably in imitation of his older brother.

“I’ll go talk to him later, okay?” Alex says, trying to put reassurance he doesn’t quite feel into his voice.

“Thanks,” Jemmy says, then asks quietly, “Why was Charlie saying those things?”

“Because he’s an ass-- An idiot,” Alex says.

“So,” Jemmy says with a little tremor. “Jack doesn’t have a boyfriend, right?”

Alex masks his surprise behind a wide-eyed grin. “No, of course not. Why would you say that?”

“Only, Charlie said--”

“Idiot, remember?” Alex repeats firmly. Then, because he can’t help fishing a little, he asks, “Would it be such a bad thing if he did, though?”

Jemmy frowns thoughtfully. “Boys aren’t supposed to kiss boys.”

“Oh yeah, says who?”

“Dad,” Jemmy says at once, then adds, “And the pastor, and kids at school.”

Alex turns to him and puts both hands on his shoulders. “Sometimes people believe things like that because of how they grew up. But it’s okay to kiss anyone you want, as long as they want to kiss you back. Got it?”

Jemmy shrugs, scuffing his heel.

“Take your mom and dad. Back when they got married, people thought it wasn’t right for a white person and a brown person to love each other. But they did anyway, and I think you’d agree that there’s nothing wrong with that, right?”

“I guess.”

“And you know why?”

Jemmy looks up. “Why?”

“You tell me. When you love someone, is it what’s on the outside that matters, or the inside?”

Alex sees that Jemmy understands the point he’s trying to make by the furrow in his brow - that same little concern-line that John gets - but Jemmy also knows that he has to give the right answer. “Inside,” he mumbles.

“See?”

“I guess.” Jemmy lets out a little sigh. “But _Jack_ isn’t like that, right?”

Alex doesn’t want to lie to the kid’s face, but he doesn’t want to out John either. He glances up. “Hey, isn’t that your pony getting loose there?”

Jemmy turns to look. “Oh no,” he squeaks, then dashes off without another word.

Alex squints up into the bright sky and sighs, feeling a deep pang of empathy for John, who can’t even be honest about this stuff with the little brother who worships the ground he walks on.

\-----

John gets back just in time for the start of the final race, his face set in a focused, grim expression. His mood must translate to Monarch, who fusses at the starting line, stomping and champing on his bit, then leaps forward when the whistle sounds. Alex watches John maneuver back and forth between the flag stands, picking up and placing each one with precision, spinning his horse on a dime and kicking it into a gallop. He finishes the task by a massive margin, then trots to the end zone with his chin up, and the flicker of a smile in the corner of his lips. 

There’s a little prizegiving ceremony where the stable manager pins a blue rosette to Monarch’s bridle, after which the crowd disperses and everyone starts the long slog back up to the stables. 

John rides over to him, looking more settled but with a slight tension in his face that Alex reads as his cue not to bring up the altercation from earlier. 

“The reigning champion!” Alex says with a flourish.

John smiles. “Glad I could win my last one.”

“Well, I’ll see you back up there,” Alex says, looking up at the muddy slope with trepidation. It’s hard enough to walk in boots without having to contend with the sticky, churned mud.

“Why don’t I give you a lift?” John offers.

Alex looks up with surprise. “What?”

John slides out of the saddle and laughs. “Yeah, it’s not far.”

Alex stares at Monarch in trepidation. He’s seen how antsy this horse can get. “No way.”

“It’ll be fine. He can carry two of us, it’s not a big deal. Plus, he’s tired, he’s not going to be fussy.”

“If I break something, you’re paying for my medical bills.”

John laughs. “Deal. The saddle’s nice and broad and you can use the stirrups if you need to balance. Oh, and you can grip on to his mane as hard as you like, he won’t feel it.” To demonstrate, John yanks at a handful of it, and Monarch doesn’t so much as flick an ear.

Alex sighs. “Okay.”

“Let me boost you up.”

Alex has seen how some of the smaller kids get lifted on, so he grabs hold of the mane in one hand and bends his knee. John grabs his leg and hoists him up easily, and Alex just about manages to swing his other leg over just in time to feel like he’s going to slide off the other side. He yanks on the mane and keeps his balance.

Shit. He didn’t realise how high up this is. 

John reaches around him to grab onto the saddle, then springs up lightly behind him. The curve of the saddle makes him slide forward a little, so that Alex’s back is flush with John’s chest and his ass is pressed tightly back against John’s hips.

He feels a decidedly pleasant tingle when John slides one arm around his side to grab onto the reins and then shifts his leg to nudge Monarch forward. But it turns into a flash of panic as the horse starts to move - the walk is more lurching than he was expecting, and immediately he feels himself sliding off to the side again.

He makes a startled squeak, but then John puts his other hand on his hip to rebalance him, and the tingle returns.

“Just try to relax,” John says. “I know your instinct is to lean forward, but rather keep your shoulders back, and lean into me if you feel yourself slipping.”

“Okay,” Alex breathes, and since he has the excuse to do it now, he does lean back more firmly against John, who is radiating heat and smelling like the best combination of clean sweat and fresh air. He feels the rise and fall of John’s chest against his shoulders, and the little breaths against the back of his neck. The rocking motion presses his ass back into John’s lap, and now that Alex is actually in range of the thighs he’s been admiring from a distance, he can’t help the filthy thoughts that start to whisper in his ear.

He really shouldn’t be going down this path, especially since John has repeatedly made it clear he sees him as a brother and only that - but wasn’t it also John who once told him that having _thoughts_ about stuff like this is okay?

So he breathes deep to catch John’s scent, then imagines that those hips and arms and thighs are pressing into him for more sinful reasons, and he lets himself picture the hand on his hip sliding lower, to the top of his thigh, then down the inside where he’s gripping on to the saddle. It’s such a delicious thought that he actually squeezes his legs a little tighter.

But that makes Monarch lurch forward into a trot, and Alex yelps in alarm as the motion immediately jostles him out of position. But again, John catches him, this time with a firm arm around his abdomen, as he reins Monarch back into a walk.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” John says soothingly.

“Thanks,” Alex whispers, but he can’t stop his heart thudding at being pressed even closer. He’s just glad he’s sitting in front, because he’s not sure he'd be able to hide his sudden flush of interest if he had pressure on his groin now.

They make it back to the barn without further incident, and Alex is in equal measures relieved and sad when John slides off from behind him, and then puts a steadying hand on his waist to help him down too. It’s only then that Alex wonders how this might look - John pressed close to him, holding him tightly, touching him in public - and suddenly isn’t sure why John offered him the ride. John is more aware of appearances than anyone else, so he must have realised how this would come across, especially in light of the accusations Charlie was flinging around.

There’s something especially defiant and walled off about John’s expression now, but Alex remembers his promise to Jemmy, so he follows John into the stable and leans up against the wall of Monarch’s stall as John unsaddles him and starts to brush him down.

“I think you broke his nose again,” Alex quips, and immediately sees John’s shoulders tense up. 

“Good.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “You wanna tell me why?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“To everyone else? Yeah. To me?” He waits for John to look up, and gives him a knowing look. “No.”

John scowls and rubs more intently at a patch of mud on Monarch’s coat. 

Alex sighs. “You can’t always go charging in like a white knight, you know?” There’s a metaphor here, Alex thinks for a moment, in the way that a chess knight moves - non-linear, unpredictable, and ultimately less effective than other pieces because of it. Knights are what you sacrifice to preserve your more focused, more effective pieces. “You need to come up with better ways to handle your temper.”

John just narrows his eyes and doesn’t respond. 

“I guess the first step is being honest about why you got angry.”

“He was hitting his horse,” John mutters.

Alex shrugs. “Yeah, sure, but no one else seemed to think it was a big deal. If he was actually hurting it, I’m sure one of the adults would have stepped in.” 

“I don’t like bullies,” John says eventually.

“No one does,” Alex says with a sigh. “But there’s other ways to handle them. Like just ignoring their bullshit, for one.”

“Oh, yeah,” John says with a sarcastic eye roll. “That’s the Hamilton approach, isn’t it? Just take it and walk away, pretend it doesn’t bother you.”

Alex pouts thoughtfully. “You know I can’t risk causing a scene the way you can, right?”

“That doesn't mean you have to roll over every time they come after you.”

“Ironic, considering that’s how you deal with your dad.”

John glares at him over Monarch’s back. “That’s different and you know it.”

Alex sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “Wait,” he says, as a thought occurs to him. “Was the horse thing an excuse to go after him because of what he said to me?”

John’s angry frown shifts to a concerned pout. He hesitates long enough that Alex realises he’s trying to figure out a way to talk around his honest answer, then says, “I know you don’t need me to fight your battles for you.”

“But?”

“No buts. I hit him because of what he said about _me._ ”

“Hmm.” Alex kicks his heel against the wall. That’s not a lie, but it’s also not the whole truth. “Jemmy was asking me about that.”

“What?” John looks up at him, finally, and the stifled concern becomes more open worry. “What did you say?”

“Relax - I didn’t tell him anything. But I think you’re going to need to lay some groundwork there. He’s drunk too much of the conservative kool aid”

“My shit is not something he should have to deal with. I don’t want any of them getting picked on because of me.”

Alex sighs. “You can’t keep it a secret forever.”

John narrows his eyes like he wants to say ‘just try me’.

“And anyway, like I was trying to say,” Alex adds. “You need to work on ways to deal with people who make you angry that don’t involve physical violence. Otherwise _you’ll_ be the one who ends up looking like a bully.”

That one seems to sink in, judging by the way John’s angry frown melts a little. 

“I mean, I piss you off all the time, and you’ve never felt the urge to hit me, right?”

John snorts. “Guess not.”

“I’m not saying don’t _get_ angry. But channel it differently. Make it work for you. Let it fuel you into proving that they’re wrong about everything they said about you. Except for the whole being gay--”

“Jack!” 

Jemmy’s curly head bursts into view over the stable door. John throws Alex a panicked glance, and Alex returns it, but by his excited squeal, it doesn’t sound like Jemmy overheard that last comment.

“Uh - yeah?” John asks carefully.

“Come, I wanna show you! I plaited Poppy’s tail all on my own!”

John exhales a sigh of relief. “Sure. Be right back,” he adds to Alex.

Alex stays behind, sizing up Monarch for a moment before stepping a little closer and patting his neck gingerly. He still doesn’t trust horses much, but this one seems to be growing on him.

“I know he calls you an idiot,” Alex sighs. “But he’s not really one to talk, huh?”

Monarch stamps a hoof, and Alex laughs.

“Yeah - glad we agree.”

———

It takes several days for Alex to find out whether his tentative nudge at flirtation towards Henry worked. He hasn’t seen the sweater around since he left it in Henry’s office, it hasn’t come through the laundry back to him, nor did he see it when he peeked tentatively into his foster father’s study while he was out.

He's sitting at his desk writing, an essay for his politics class that isn't due till next Wednesday, but like he said — they don't give him enough to do, this fancy private school that’s really just all show.

There's a knock at the door. Alex makes a vague 'uh-huh?' noise, thinking it's one of the younger Laurens kids here to show him a bug they've found or a crayon drawing. 

The Laurenses’ housekeeper pokes her head around the door. She's sweet, calls him _darlin'_ and _mijo_ , but Alex doesn't feel comfortable around any of the staff here. When he first arrived, they treated him differently to the other Laurens kids - they were friendlier with him. The cook would call him to the kitchen so he could try a recipe she was testing and when the Cuban man who comes every so often to tend to the gardens first saw him, he started talking with Alex excitedly in Spanish. 

He cringes at the memory of the other Laurens children watching on in judgemental silence as he politely tried to extract himself from the conversation.

And it's because they know he's one of them. He's not from the Laurens' world, they didn't watch him grow up with more money and privilege showered upon him than they could ever earn. He's a foster kid from some backwater town on a godforsaken Caribbean island. He _isn't_ a Laurens. 

"Alex?" the housekeeper asks with a smile, "Mr. Laurens said I should give this to you?"

In her arms, the woman holds a small, soft-looking package wrapped in non-descript brown paper. Alex states at it for a long moment, his brows knitting together in a frown.

“Uh, what is it?” He pushes his chair out from his desk to face her a little more directly. She’s holding it out to him now. There’s no name written on it, no identifying markings at all. “Are you sure he meant it for me?” he asks a touch suspiciously, though he reaches out to take it anyway. It feels soft and plush and has a little weight to it.

The woman smiles. “Yes, he mentioned something about you needing a new sweater. I trust you know what all that’s about.”

Alex looks sharply up at her, suddenly realising what this might be. He’d begun to lose hope, thought maybe that Henry had decided to let the sweater be thrown out as a particularly cruel rebuke, never to be mentioned or seen again.

The housekeeper steps back into the hallway and closes the door. Alex calls out his thanks belatedly, then stares down at the parcel in his lap.

What is he waiting for? He tears a rip along the side of the parcel and lets the item inside fall gently into his lap. It’s a sweater, just as he’d guessed from the weight and feel of the package. But this isn’t the sweater he left in Henry’s study several days ago; in fact, they couldn’t really be more different.

Alex picks it up and lets it fall out of its careful fold. It’s an olive green colour, lighter and more muted than the bright synthetic green of his old sweater or the deep, lush colour of the scarf John gave him last year. He runs a hand over the fabric, soft and thick without being scratchy. Alex knows very little about clothes, and certainly nothing about the sort the Laurenses wear, but he only has to run a hand over this sweater once to know it’s now the most expensive piece of clothing he has ever owned.

He pulls it on carefully, marvelling at the feel of it against his arms and face. Henry _chose_ this for him. Wearing it feels so incredibly significant, like he’s put on the version of himself he wants Henry to turn him into - that _Henry_ wants to design. It fits perfectly - better than the old one, which was too short on the arms but baggy around the middle. He doesn’t know exactly why this detail jumps out to him, but everything Henry does, he does with unerring purpose. This isn’t a rebuke in any sense of the word, but it _is_ Henry redefining Alex’s action on his own terms.

He supposes Henry will be awaiting some sort of response. He wonders briefly whether he should drag it out a little, fold the sweater carefully into his drawer and wear it after a little time has passed. But that feels like tempting fate, like taking this extraordinary gesture of endorsement for granted.

He doesn’t even care that he probably won’t get the other sweater back. This is a way to signal his ambition, his _intent_ , to Henry even in the presence of Martha’s contemptuous glares and John’s clenched jaw.

He checks his watch. Dinner will be ready in just under an hour. Alex has a feeling Henry will be there. Just to lay eyes on him, to see whether Alex will be wearing his allegiance, this code that only they understand. 

Oh, and Alex will be. This colour suits him, and he thinks he should get used to wearing these types of clothes if Henry’s intentions are what he thinks they are. 

He steps quickly in front of the mirror before heading downstairs. It isn’t a colour he wears often, this cool earthy gray-green. It looks expensive, and it suits him. The cut of it, following the lines of his torso in a way that still emphasises his trimness, but that hides his too-sharp angles and gangliness. 

John meets him in the hallway and does a double take when he sees Alex, stopping just outside the door and looking him up and down with a small frown.

“Is that one of Harry’s? I don’t recognise it.”

Alex shrugs. “Took your advice. Mentioned to the housekeeper that I didn’t have anything warm enough to wear.”

“You could have asked me, you know,” John laughs incredulously and, with a hand right between Alex’s shoulder blades, he leads them both into the dining room.

Alex doesn’t dare look up when Henry enters the room. He keeps his eyes on his plate and curls his hand tightly around one knee, certain Henry’s eyes will have gone straight to him. He keeps his posture straight and even though the nerve to make eye-contact fails him, he keeps his chin up and pushes back his shoulders. Let Henry appreciate it properly, he thinks.

Only after they’ve said grace does he dare to turn and look to his foster father properly. He hadn’t been expecting to meet those dark eyes, that they’d still be watching him — but they are. Henry looks Alex up and down with an infinitesimal flick of his eyes and his lips twitch, just slightly. Alex can’t claim to be able to read Henry well yet, but he thinks this smile is pleased and not mocking. Alex must have responded correctly.

Dinner passes without incident, and it’s only as they’re all leaving that Henry addresses him. Martha is leading Polly out by the hand, looking back over her shoulder at Alex and her father. John is long gone, always the first to leave any room his father is in, with his brothers hot on his heels.

Henry leans backwards slightly to let the housekeeper pick up his empty glass. Alex watches him, his hands fidgeting under the table but every other inch of him still.

“This budgeting business has been taxing. However, I have a little time for a game of chess tomorrow evening.”

Alex nods, trying to balance the movement somewhere between eager and collected. Henry stands, and as he steps around the side of the table, his hand falls on Alex’s shoulder for just a moment. 

“It suits you, Alexander,” he says. “Better than your old one.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some quick translations:
> 
> ‘Un des roquets de monsieur le sénateur’: one of the Senator’s little pets.  
> ‘Petit chiot coquin’: naughty little puppy  
> ‘Votre humble servante’: Yours truly

When John informs him that the Easter service they’re going to attend on Holy Sunday is a two-hour affair followed by a garden party, Alex considers protesting his right to freedom from religion to get out of being dragged along with the rest of the Laurenses. 

But John talks him into it. His foster brother reasons that he should see it more as a social and networking event - he says it with a little scoff at Alex’s expense, knowing how keen Alex is to integrate himself into this bizarre upper class society - and that the food afterwards is always worth a few hours of sitting on the uncomfortable wooden benches. Besides, all of John’s friends will be there.

And that means Francis.

Alex thought the debaucherous encounter New Year’s would be a one-time thing - but the last time he had been forced to tag along as John’s chaperone, he is pretty sure he caught Francis looking at him in a more intent, appraising way between the glares of annoyance and frustration. And, well, if he’d swung his hips a bit or quirked his lip and looked coyly away when Francis turned to him, who could blame him for a bit of harmless flirting?

Now Alex is incredibly torn. On the one hand, he feels an odd and unfamiliar sensation that he finally determines must be guilt - guilt at betraying John’s trust after his foster brother had confided his own infatuation, and then at lying about it, if only by omission. But another part of him feels defiant and proud. John has _every_ advantage and benefit and virtue he could ever need to get ahead, whether he acknowledges it or not. Alex doesn’t deny his jealousy, but he assuages it by reminding himself that he has _one_ thing John doesn’t. And that’s this secret thing with Francis.

So Alex agrees to go to the Easter thing, and omits to tell John exactly which of his arguments is the one that persuades him.

He isn’t really expecting anything to happen, though. After all, it’s a church service in the middle of the day. It’s not like there is going to be much opportunity for the privacy they’d need for fumbled touches. But nevertheless, it might still be fun to play the tease, and messing with Francis will give him something to do during the interminable service.

So he puts on an old but fine pair of tailored trousers that John has grown out of, the result being that on Alex, they’re perfectly snug around his ass. He digs out a crisp white shirt, and he snags one of Harry’s navy sports jackets since John’s are far too big to really outline his figure. He pulls his hair back neatly, and even roots around in Martha’s discarded make-up back for a bit of concealer to lighten the semi-permanent dark rings around his eyes. 

Even Henry looks grudgingly impressed when he comes down the stairs, in that sneering way that looks entirely like contempt but that Alex now recognises a note of darker consideration in. 

John raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, thank god.

When they arrive at the church, the wide gravel parking lot is already teeming with cars and people. Henry instructs John to wrangle his siblings, a duty that John almost immediately shirks by passing each of them a twenty and promising another one if they get to their seats in time and manage to behave themselves throughout the service.

Alex still finds this hilarious. The first time John paid off his siblings, he’d been confused - because didn’t they all have too much money than they knew what to do with already? But John explained that, while Henry provides all the boring necessities of life, he’s very stingy with pocket money - because of the risk, as John paraphrases, of it being spent on ‘improper and immoral purchases’. 

“What?” Alex had scoffed at the time, “Like, porn mags and booze?”

John had laughed. “No. He’s much more afraid of the girls getting red lipstick or that someone will smuggle in a copy of _The_ _Hunger Games_ or some liberal shit like that.”

Having solved the sibling dilemma, John scans the crowd and fixes his eyes on a group of kids their age standing in the shade. Even without seeing Francis for himself, Alex would know he is among them by the specific shade of pink that immediately erupts on John’s cheeks.

“Should we…?” John suggests, fidgeting awkwardly with the hem of his blazer.

“Lead the way.”

Alex’s own glance over the little group is more intent as they approach; Francis is with Martha - other Martha - and another guy with a darker complexion who looks like he might be Italian rather than Latino. The guy is talking, and the other two are nodding along but sharing covert, amused glances. Just as they get in range, Francis looks up and their eyes meet. A lightning-quick exchange passes between them - recognition, appraisal, a question - and Alex allows his lips to curl up into a seductive affirming smile. There’s a twitch of Francis’ eye that Alex reads as confirmation, and then Francis looks over to John and his smile turns warmer, if a touch mocking.

And so the game begins.

“Hey, Frankie,” John says, sweet and shy, and offers a hug in greeting.

Francis hugs him back. “Jackie. Thank god you’re here. Louis has been boring us half to death with his gap-year plans.” 

Alex sees the way Francis’ fingers linger on John’s elbow just a little too long after they separate from the hug, and he feels a twinge of jealousy. But he suspects Francis is doing it on purpose, as much to goad Alex as to flirt with John.

“Gap year? Fucking lucky, Lou,” John says, his blush deeper as he claps the guy on the shoulder. He leans over and gives Martha a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Oh, Alex, I don’t think you’ve met Louis?”

Alex steps forward and stretches out a hand. “Alexander Hamilton.”

“Louis de Vegobre,” the guy says with a French accent and a cultivated politician's-kid smile. “Hamilton? That’s Scottish?”

“Yup. My father is landed gentry,” he says, matching Louis’ bland smile with an affected smirk of his own.

But John laughs, and it stings. “Don’t listen to him, Lou. Alex is staying with us for a bit.”

Francis leans over to Louis and says, quiet and mocking but clearly audible, “ _Un des roquets de monsieur le sénateur._ ”

Louis stifles his laugh, and Alex bites the inside of his cheek. John, whose French has fizzled after his semester abroad in Geneva, doesn't catch the insult. 

“Ah, and are you enjoying the hospitality of the Laurenses?” Louis asks.

Alex pushes his lips into a wide smile. “I can’t complain.”

“Best not to, when it comes to old man Henry,” Francis jokes, and John rolls his eyes. 

“Ignore these assholes,” Martha interrupts with a long-suffering sigh. “Have you guys heard back from any colleges yet?”

“College, singular,” John says. 

“Georgetown?”

“Yeah. Legacy. Alex and I are starting in September. _Some_ of us don't get to go gallivanting around South-East Asia first.”

Louis shrugs unselfconsciously. “The superiority of the European mindset, perhaps. My father knows the value of building character through independence.”

“Yeah, well, that presumes that my dad wanted me to have any character traits other than loyal and obedient,” John sighs. 

Francis slings an arm around his shoulders with a laugh, and Alex sees the way John swallows and his eyes widen. “Don’t sound so despondent, Jackie. Once you get to D.C. it’s going to be much harder for him to hover over you. I’m sure Alex here can teach you how to break some rules.”

“I’ve been trying!” Alex protests with a genuine laugh, as John shrugs off Francis’ arm with a surreptitious look around to where Henry is talking with the pastor and some others.

“We should go sit down,” John says. 

“You want to sit with us?” Martha offers.

“Uh--” John looks over to Alex with a tiny flash of panic; Alex gives him a miniscule nod and steps forward so that he’s between John and Francis, so that they don’t end up sitting next to each other. “Sure,” John agrees.

They file into a pew - Louis, Martha, John, Alex and then Francis - just as the noise in the church swells. 

When the other three huddle to look at something on Martha’s phone, Francis leans closer to Alex’s ear. 

“I can’t help wondering whose eye you’re trying to catch.”

“Why? See something you like?”

Francis flicks his eyebrow up. “Just saying. You don’t stick your ass in pants like that unless you’re begging someone to split it open.” 

Alex feels a rush of heat down into his belly at the lewd words. He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Church thing sounded boring. Thought it would be fun to raise the stakes.”

“Mmm.” Francis puts his hand down casually on the pew between them, but Alex feels two fingers brush up against his thigh and then push in underneath. Francis runs his hand up, until he is digging into the flesh of Alex’s backside. “Not a lot of opportunity for riding dick back at home with Henry Senior on watch, is that it?”

Alex bites his cheek and tries to suppress the memory of Henry’s black stare as the congressmen had pressed Alex’s hand firmly against his hard cock, of throwing himself onto the arm of Henry’s chair and tasting whiskey on him. Together with the secret touch and the incongruous setting, he starts to feel an aroused burn down the back of his neck.

Francis takes his silence as agreement. “Pity old Jackie’s too afraid to get his dick wet. He’s so pent up I would imagine he’d keep going until you were raw and begging for him to stop.”

Alex feels John jostle him as he slips off his blazer, and he blushes more deeply. The idea of doing _that_ with John, pleasant as it might be in his fantasies, isn’t something Alex is prepared to entertain - especially because John has made it completely clear that it isn’t an option. But sticking up for John is not going to help him get what he wants from Francis.

“Or maybe I just want someone who knows what he’s doing,” he says with as much self-confidence as he can muster.

Francis chokes off a laugh. “The ones with the pretty faces are always the biggest sluts.” He pulls away his hand. “Later. Maybe.”

Alex tries to suppress his grimace. He thought this would be easier. Clearly the few years Francis has on him have imbued him with a confidence that Alex envies - or perhaps he’s just not as starved for opportunities to fool around.

The service begins and Alex is almost immediately bored out of his mind. He’s familiar enough with the proceedings that he knows when to stand and sit and pretend to sing along, but that just allows his mind - and his eyes - to wander. Fuck, it’s so aggravating that Francis is _just_ his type - tall, broad, with that square jaw and blonde hair combo that makes him look all-American rather than Swiss. He’s got a delicious swimmer’s build, all defined shoulders and wiry forearms and narrow hips, and tempting thighs that flex in his tight-fitting pants whenever he sits or stands. And his hands - not entirely like Henry’s, but big and strong enough to hold him down and grip into his flesh in a way he’s found he really fucking liked on New Year’s.

Since he has nothing to lose, when Alex notes they’re about to settle in for the unending sermon, he sits down so that his legs are a little wider and his knee just brushes the side of Francis’ thigh. Then he puts a hand on his own leg, fingers trailing down his inner thigh, and tilts his head back just a little.

Francis doesn’t shift away.

Alex gives it a few minutes, and then shifts so that their legs are pressed together more firmly at their calves. An electric buzz runs up his leg, and all of his attention homes in on the hot places where they are touching.

Francis shifts his seat a little.

Okay, maybe now he’s getting somewhere. Shit. He should have read up on some ways to do this kind of silent flirting. He can’t do anything that will be visible to the people sitting around him and he has limited mobility given his position and that John is brushing against his other side with his elbow as he stares blankly ahead, obviously ignoring the sermon too.

At a loss for any other ideas, Alex draws his leg back just a little and loops his foot around Francis’ ankle, then strokes it slowly up and down.

Francis clears his throat and folds his hands in his lap.

Alex keeps his foot there, stroking idly, while he tries to tame his own physical response.

He is so caught up in the touch, in his own reaction, in studying Francis from the corner of his eye, that he jumps and almost slides out of his seat when John turns to him and whispers in his ear. 

“Could they make this fucking thing _any_ longer?”

Alex covers his response with a cough. “Hey, you’re the one who talked me into it,” he retorts. For a second he considers relinquishing the contact with Francis’ leg, but… something about the secretive, illicit touch sparks a deep flame that isn’t only arousal. He’s got a dangerous secret, and that is a powerful feeling. His blood is singing with excitement.

John shrugs. “You’re the one who tells me I’m an idiot - so why did you listen?”

Alex lets out a breath of laughter and pulls back, using the motion as an excuse to lean his shoulder against Francis’ solid arm. He lets his hand slip just a little higher up his own leg, right to the top of his thigh, and is gratified when he sees Francis shoot a look down at it.

He maintains the contact for a little while, then remembers how successful Francis’ swings from hot to cold are at getting him riled up. He should give Frankie a taste of his own medicine. Since he suspects he has all of Francis’ attention by now, he pretends to stretch, and shifts away from him entirely. For good measure, he crosses his leg away from Francis and leans in to whisper something to John, though his attention remains laser-focused on Francis.

Influence. Patience. Tactical retreat. He’s starting to see how these can all be tools towards power, if only he can learn to tame his instinct to run in all guns blazing.

———

Even early spring this far south is humid, and the sun is beating down on the grassy courtyard behind the church with a vengeance. Louis and Martha have gone in search for drinks and Alex is standing in a huddle with Francis and John in the sparse shade of a spindly line of trees.

“Boring as all hell, wasn’t it?” John throws out with a slightly nervous laugh, jerking his head towards the church.

Francis laughs, just a touch louder and more genuinely than John’s words merit. He shrugs and thrusts a hand into his pocket, pulling out a flattened pack of cigarettes and sticking one between his lips.

“I was dying for a smoke the whole way through. Honestly, only time we ever go to church is when we’re in the States.”

John is watching Francis cup his hand to light the end of the cigarette with an expression of near puppyish adoration. Alex tenses his jaw, frowning as Francis flicks the spur on the lighter and curses as it sparks and then sputters out.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, “it’s my thumb. Whacked it playing cricket ages ago and it’s still not right.”

Alex reaches out and takes the light from Francis, gets a flame and holds it up to the cigarette between Francis’ lips. He gets a quick, sharp look in return — dark and full of lewd promise, before Francis pulls away and exhales a mouthful of smoke.

“Jackie, you still playing polo with our old team?”

John grins. “Yeah, playing pivot now.”

Francis smiles and slaps John on the shoulder. “Nice, man! I’m sure you’re still as irritatingly good as you always were.”

John throws Alex a grin from over Francis’ shoulder at this, so excited and full of undisguised delight that Alex cringes. John is about as subtle as a brick when it comes to his crush on Francis, and from what Alex has experienced, Francis isn’t the type that does softness, or tender kisses, or the many vulnerabilities and emotions that John brings along with him. Alex doesn’t want Francis using any of John’s naivety against him.

So Alex shrugs and says airily. “Sort of a shame polo’s the real popular sport around here. I don’t find it all that interesting.”

Francis raises an eyebrow and turns to look at Alex with a sharp, searching smile. 

“Oh yeah? Why is that?”

Alex shrugs and raises a hand to greet Martha and Louis, who are picking their way carefully through the throngs of people to reach them with several red solo cups in their hands.

“I don’t know, I guess the players never really seem in the thick of it, so high off the ground and never even touching the ball. There’s no _contact._ ”

Francis rolls his eyes. Behind him, John is helping Martha with the drinks.

“I played rugby for a while in London, is that enough ‘contact’ for you?”

Alex grins and puts out his foot to step on the edge of Francis’ shoe. He leaves a tiny spot of mud on the shiny black leather and laughs quietly. “Mmm, rugby is a much more appealing mental image.”

Francis looks from the tip of his shoe up to Alex’s grinning face and shakes his head slowly, though his eyes gleam with something deliciously mean.

“ _Petit chiot coquin,_ ” Francis mutters, taking a drag on his cigarette and turning back to the others.

Alex can’t help it. As he brushes past Francis to move back over to John, he says, falsely deferential, “ _Votre humble servante._ ”

He feels Francis turning to watch him as he sidles away with what he can only imagine is an extremely satisfying look of incredulity on his face. Francis’ casual arrogance is appealing in its own way — but it feels good to get one over him. Alex doesn’t particularly care about making a _friend_ of Francis.

Martha hands him one of the cups. Alex sniffs it and takes a long drink. The cold soda — and is that vodka? — is exactly what he needs to shake some of his reservations loose, calm the slight tremble in his hands. He was drunk last time he did anything with Francis, being ever so slightly buzzed now seems like a good idea.

“Did one of you spike the punch?” he asks, grinning at Martha and Louis as they knock cups.

Louis shrugs and pats the outline of something small and rectangular in his trouser pocket. “I came prepared,” he says smugly, “Vodka I picked up in Krakow a few weeks ago. So much better than your local shit.”

Alex glances at Martha and they trade an amused look. Louis slings an arm over Martha’s shoulder and nods in John’s direction.

“You’ve left your _copain_ all alone.”

Alex gives him the finger, good naturedly, and turns to go back over to John, taking one of the unspiked sodas with him.

John greets him with a small smile and shifts a little on the bench for Alex to sit beside him, but he’s looking over his shoulder distractedly at Francis, who’s putting out his cigarette against the tree trunk.

“So what do you think?” he whispers into Alex’s ear, while the others are laughing at something Louis has said.

“Francis?”

John goes pink and looks quickly around to make sure no one has heard, then gives an affirmative jerk of his head.

“He’s fine,” Alex says simply. “I don’t think he’s super happy with me getting in the way all the time though.”

John shrugs and raises a hand to beckon over Louis and Martha, a certain tightness present in his jaw that Alex is sure hadn’t been there moments earlier.

Behind them, Francis calls out. When Alex turns, he’s taken a few steps back in the direction of the church.

“I’m going to the bathroom! Might catch up with some people on the way, don’t wait around.”

And then his eyes meet Alex’s, and he instantly understands. Francis holds their gaze for a heartbeat, meaningfully raises his eyebrows a fraction, then spins around with a smug grin. As he walks over to the entrance of the church, his bright blond head of hair gleams like white gold in the sun.

———

Alex fights the urge to jump up and follow Francis as soon as he vanishes into the church building. He sits with the others for several agonising minutes, and when he finally gets up, he sidles through the crowds under the marquee for a little while, trading snide remarks with Louis about the bizzare ways of Southern Christians. He likes the idea that Francis is waiting for him. Impatient. Strung out. That feeling of power is even more potent than the itch to get those careless hands on him again.

So Alex is not entirely surprised when, as soon as he finally steps through the door into the cool darkness of the vestry, Francis grabs his upper arm and pulls him further in, then slams the door and pushes Alex against it. But there’s a sneer on his face as he leans over him, hands on either side of Alex’s head.

“What’s your deal, Hamilton?” he asks, and there’s a clear note of anger underneath it.

“My deal?” Alex raises an eyebrow and tilts his head. He tries not to smirk as he sees the frustration and heat in Francis’ eyes, revelling in the little flush of power that he could make this self-assured guy so flustered.

“I _told_ you to come meet me here earlier.”

“Yeah, well,” Alex shrugs, “I was busy.” 

“Oh yeah?” Francis shoots an arm down between them, and his hand grabs Alex’s cock through the fabric. Alex yelps as Francis tightens his grip and sneers, “You like playing games, don't you, you little fucking cocktease.”

Alex’s confidence fizzles. Francis sounds genuinely angry, and Alex realises that he could actually be in serious trouble if Francis decides to rough him up. But conversely, the uncomfortably tight grip is… doing things to him. Alex could try to fight this, perhaps preserve a little dignity. Or he could lean into it.

Fuck it, he’s been antsy and turned on since they got here. He’s not going to get off with anyone better than Francis.

Francis is expecting him to fight, so he’s taken aback when Alex meets his eyes, bites his lip, and groans as he pushes more firmly into the hand. But Francis recovers himself quickly and raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe I’ve been bad on purpose,” Alex murmurs. 

“Oh yeah?” Francis says, but this time it’s lower and hotter. He leans in closer, and Alex bucks his hips forward again into the aching grip of that big, strong hand. “And you know what happens to naughty boys?”

Alex’s breathing gets quicker and shallower, and he parts his lips. “They get punished.”

Francis smiles cruelly and grips his ponytail with his free hand, yanking his head back and setting off a delicious pull in Alex’s scalp. He feels Francis’ mouth descend to the delicate skin under his jaw, first to kiss, then to suck, and all the while the hand on his groin is kneading and squeezing and making him painfully hard. Alex moans encouragingly. Then, without warning, Francis nips him with his teeth. The lance of pain makes Alex gasp - but if anything, he wants more, more, _more_ of it.

He grinds forward again, subjecting his shaft to that blissful squeeze, and he feels the nudge of Francis’ hardness against his hip.

Francis pulls him away from the door, releases his hold and tugs him over to a wooden pew that has been pushed against one wall.

“Face down,” he orders, and Alex quickly complies, stretching out on his stomach. The bench is hard, and the wood digs uncomfortably into his hip bones and ribs - not to mention putting rigid, unyielding pressure on his throbbing cock. He suddenly feels a sharp stab of panic at the position Francis has ordered him to. He would have been content — hell, _delighted_ , just to get Francis’ hand on him. But he doesn’t want to lose his virginity in a vestiary. Does he?

Francis kneels with one leg between both of Alex’s. “Hips up.” 

Alex obliges, though his knees slide a little against the smooth wood. Francis reaches around, unfastens his pants, and then tugs them down past the swell of his ass to the middle of his thighs.

And fuck — Alex isn’t really going to do this, is he? 

He’s never gone this far before with anyone and he only knows the basic mechanics of it from porn he’s watched covertly in the dead of night. But if this is what he’s trying to entice Henry to, maybe he should get some experience under his belt first...

Francis has bared his ass to the cool air of the drafty, dimly lit room, and when Alex tries to shimmy his pants off more to help him, Francis swats his backside.

“I want you like this. You don’t have any lube, do you?” 

Well, shit, Alex doesn’t exactly carry lube around with him 24/7, especially not to church. 

“Fuck - no,” he groans.

“So what was your plan, then?” Francis taunts, and digs his fingers into the flesh of Alex’s ass. “Or you want me to do it without any?”

Alex buries his face into his arm, momentarily winded by a wave of panic. He can’t do this, not here, not like this— 

“No,” he forces out. “That won’t… I don’t even have a condom or anything.” 

Francis is kneading him roughly, slipping his thumb down between his legs.

“No reason why I should have to pay for your mistake,” Francis muses, then takes his hand away. Alex hears clothing rustle, then feels Francis settle behind him again. This time, Francis puts one knee alongside Alex’s outer leg, and then slides it in so that Alex’s thighs are pressed together. Then he leans forward and down, so that he’s lying across Alex’s back and pushing him even more painfully into the cool wood below him.

Alex hears Francis spit into his hand, and feels a shifting as Francis slicks himself up. He’s about to protest, jerk roughly away from Francis’ hard, crushing grip. This was a _bad_ idea. The frantic, animalistic way Francis is handling him makes the idea of him fucking Alex whole orders of magnitude less appealing than the fantasy he’s crafted in his head of Henry’s touch, purposeful and teasing and heavy.

“Keep your legs together,” Francis growls.

Francis guides his hot, rigid cock down against the back of Alex’s ass, and then pushes himself into the space between his legs, almost at the tops of Alex’s thighs where the skin is softest. He groans as he thrusts and nudges all the way in. Alex can’t help but feel relieved, he lets out a long, shallow breath and bites the inside of his cheek. This is better, surely, than having Francis force his way inside him, not a hundred yards from the altar… but it’s still uncomfortable as all hell.

Alex squirms. All of the weight on his own straining cock is starting to hurt, and this position isn’t giving him any of the satisfying stimulation he needs. Sure, the humiliation of being taken like this is setting his nerves to tingling, but that’s not going to do any good if he can’t at least get a hand around him.

This concern doesn’t seem to be bothering Francis. He adjusts the positioning of his arms and hips a little, then, seemingly satisfied, pulls out a little and pushes forward again. He does it a few more times experimentally, then starts to thrust forward quicker, building his pace. Alex feels the rough slide of the cock against his skin, the small amount of lubrication doing little to ease the way. A few more thrusts and it starts to warm up, and a minute later he’s chafing.

And worst of all, although he tries to buck back against Francis and grind his hips, all he can manage is to relieve a little of the aching press against his cock, only to have it jammed forward again by a particularly rough jerk of Francis’ hips. Much as he liked the little bit of roughness that marked their last encounter, there just isn’t anything to counterbalance it here.

Alex grits his teeth and endures as Francis moans and huffs above him. It takes a few agonising minutes for the tenor to get more urgent. He feels Francis push a hand down between his shoulders, which drives the air out of his lungs, and then he feels a hot, wet spurt on the back of his legs and on the curve of his ass.

Another stupid mistake - he doesn’t think he has any tissues with him, and he’s not about to wipe himself clean with one of the church robes.

But more urgently, fuck - he needs to get off so much it burns. 

Without waiting for Francis to catch his breath, Alex puts his arms under his shoulders and pushes up. Francis lets him up, and Alex sits back against his thighs, feeling the cooling mess ooze down his skin.

“Are you gonna fucking touch me, or what?” he growls.

A second later, a hand is tugging his hair back roughly, pulling his face up and his ass further back and down against Francis.

“You were naughty, remember? You haven’t earned my hand. Do it yourself,” Francis murmurs into his ear, then bites down on the tender skin just behind it.

Alex hisses, but he doesn’t argue, and wraps his dry hand around his aching cock. He sets a rapid pace, grunting and trembling as Francis puts his free hand to torturous use - scratching down the inside of his thigh, sliding under his shirt to pinch at his nipple, all the while biting and sucking at his neck and shoulders.

Deliciously trapped and wildly overstimulated, Alex takes only a few moments to work himself up to orgasm, arching his hips forward and up and pulling purposefully against the grip on his hair. He groans, louder than is prudent, and Francis laughs.

“Guys only make a sound like _that_ when they’re not getting laid enough. Poor, needy little puppy. Can’t get any good dick at home, huh? Then maybe you’ll learn not to play silly games when you could be having this.” And he nudges his hips roughly against Alex’s ass, as though to reinforce his point.

“Asshole,” Alex mutters. 

Francis releases him and stands up. He pulls a linen handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wipes himself off, then gives Alex a pout and tosses the dirty cloth to him. 

“Jesus, you really are a dick,” Alex says, mopping himself up as best he can, given that he can’t see whether he’s caught all the mess that’s on this back. When he’s finished, he offers the handkerchief back, but Francis just nods towards the little trashcan in the corner.

“Too bad if that’s your attitude, Hamilton,” Francis says, entirely unperturbed by the insults as he gets his clothes back in order. “I could have come over, given you a nice proper fuck before we left.”

“Left for where?”

“Didn’t you hear? I’m so fucking pissed off. My father is moving us back to Switzerland again.” 

Alex tries to sound disappointed. “What? Why?”

“I dunno, some shit is going down with his company and he said he needs to - eh, spread out some assets, sell off some stocks or something. Apparently easier to do from over there. So this is the last time you’re getting your hands on these goods for a while.”

“Oh.” Alex racks his brain; something about the Kinloch family business is ringing a bell, and after a moment he remembers - Henry is planning to invest quite a bit of money into it, based on what he was saying at breakfast the other day. All the other kids tune him out, but Alex has been listening and learning. 

Well, shit - if Henry goes through with the deal, it sounds like all the money’s going to evaporate. Selling off stocks? Dividing and hiding assets? It sounds like they’re bracing for disaster. 

Francis turns back to face him and gives him a patronising little smirk. He reaches out and pats Alex’s head, then clenches his fist hard around a handful of Alex’s hair and pulls his head back to meet his eyes.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. No need to be clever when you’ve got an ass like that.”

Alex rolls his eyes and shoves Francis away with a wry smirk, but his brain is working frantically. He slips out of the room first, smoothing his hair down and zipping up his jacket to hide any creases in his shirt. 

This has to be big. This has to be _it_. The break he needed, the tool he can crack Henry wide open with. This was never going to work just by being coy, by flattering Henry, making his eyes wide and his voice soft. It’s about being useful, smart as a whip, constantly exceeding expectations and proving to Henry that he isn’t a child.

He wants to hand this information over as soon as possible. He needs to get Henry alone tonight.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an extra special treat, we wanted to share the [Compromise verse spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5bPgAiTCjT4LmznBPSHqMc?si=EpxjWZO0SjOG5IwPZPSNtg)! No particular order, but each song captures a moment or an aspect of the characters - if you're curious about any of them, come chat on Insta (@my_deer_friend) or on Tumblr (@my-deer-friend and @mariexcherie)!

Alex gives Francis a few minutes’ head start before rejoining the others - and of course Frankie’s right back in his position at John’s side, smiling lightly as he leans in to murmur something into John’s ear. But John’s demeanour has shifted from awkward to closed off, and the tight smile he’s wearing now is stripped of its earlier sweetness. 

“There you are,” John says as soon as he spots Alex approaching, his tone a little distant. “We’re leaving soon.”

Alex shoots Francis a questioning look over John’s shoulder, and Francis shrugs covertly in response. 

“Come on,” John says, starting to walk off. When they’re a little way away, he asks, “Where were you?”

“Oh, uh - networking. You said that’s what I should be doing.” He considers for a second before asking, “What’s wrong?”

John ignores the question. “Did you see Martha and the boys anywhere?”

“Jemmy’s running around with some kids. Martha and Harry were getting food, I think?” He trots a few steps to catch up with John and puts a hand on his arm. “John?”

John’s expression remains aggressively blank. “Go call Jemmy, won’t you?” 

Okay. John’s clearly put up his walls, though Alex doesn’t get a sense that John is angry at _him,_ at least _._ Alex goes after Jemmy, as instructed, and when he meets up again with the other kids, he sees John has gone over to where Henry is talking with Mr Kinloch and another man who he thinks might be other-Martha’s father. Henry claps John on the shoulder, then shakes hands with the other men and leads John back over to where they are waiting. 

John sits in stony silence in the car on the ride back, and as soon as they get home, he vanishes into his room, closing and locking the door behind him. 

But Alex doesn’t have time to worry about him now, or to think of a way to confirm if John actually did catch on to his fling with Francis.

He dashes into his room and spends the next few hours delving into niche economics blogs and finance textbooks he finds online, to try to see if he can figure out exactly what the Kinlochs might be doing. There’s not a lot to go on, but it seems that the actions Francis mentioned, along with the knowledge that they’re seeking investors like Henry, looks an awful lot like the company funds are being illegally funnelled somewhere else and their disappearance needs to be covered up.

On a whim, he checks the historic share price of the company’s stocks, and then digs into social media and news reports to see if he can correlate the fluctuations - and yes, it’s pretty clear once you map it out: every time the Kinlochs go back to Europe, the value of their company dips as well. Alex doesn’t know which one is the cause and which is the effect, but the pattern is unmistakably there. This _has_ to be something.

He prints off the most relevant pages and staples them together, adding a few handwritten annotations.

He glances at the time and is surprised to find that it’s already after nine - meaning that he’s missed dinner entirely - and considering the lateness, it seems like he’s not going to be summoned tonight for a chess game. But he’s too eager and antsy to wait.

He steals out of his room, past John’s locked door, and down into the house in search of his foster father. It’s mostly dark and quiet by now, except for the sound of someone watching TV in a distant lounge. Alex tries Henry’s office, but the door is closed and the light off, and there’s no sign of him on the terrace or in the dining room. If Henry has already retired for the night, Alex is not going to dare to venture into his bedroom. 

The library.

Dim light is filtering out from behind the door, which is just ajar enough that Alex can peer in. He sees Henry seated comfortably in one of the leather armchairs, paging through a large book while his hand absently swirls a tumbler of whiskey. The light catches the side of his face, throwing his eyes into shadow and accentuating the sharp, hard lines of his jaw and mouth.

Even though his hips are still bruised from the wooden pew and his thighs are chafing uncomfortably, Alex considers, for just a second, abandoning his current plan. Instead, he pictures himself slipping into the room, closing the door softly behind him and walking over to Henry with a dark, sinful offer in his eyes. He’d pluck that book silently out of Henry’s hands, then climb into his lap - his slender, raw thighs around those firm ones - and he’d lean down to inhale the taste of the whiskey straight from Henry’s lips--

\--fuck, he’s going to be having _dreams_ again tonight.

He takes a moment to compose himself again, then knocks. Henry looks up and frowns, and Alex eases the door open even though he hasn’t been given permission.

“Sir?” he says tentatively.

Henry sighs; he looks tired. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have something you need to see.”

“Surely this can wait until tomorrow,” Henry says.

Alex steps further into the room. “I don’t think so. I found some information I think you need to have as soon as possible.”

“What information?” Henry says, with a hint of a sneer.

Alex gets close enough to hand him the sheaf of papers, then steps back again. “There’s something fishy going on with the Kinloch business.”

Henry’s eyes stay on Alex for a long moment, narrowing slightly as he completes his appraisal, but then he lowers them to the papers in his hand. His expression sharpens, and his posture shifts to shrug off all of his tiredness. 

“What exactly do you think you’ve found, Alexander?”

Alex sucks in a steadying breath and inches a step closer. Henry’s eyes lift to his face again, studying him intently.

“The Kinlochs are going back to Switzerland next week, sir,” he starts, keeping his eyes lowered and his tone deferential. “They’re selling off some of their shares while they can still get a good price for them, and they’re splitting and hiding their assets in different shell companies - here, and here.” He leans in just a little to point to the names on the page between them. Henry’s eyes don’t leave his face. Alex swallows hard. “It-- It seems pretty obvious, when you look at it, that they’re misappropriating shareholders’ investments, hiding them somewhere out of reach.”

Henry gestures down at the papers in his lap. “And this is your evidence?”

Alex nods and steps to the side of Henry’s armchair so that he can lean in. This close, he can - fuck! - he can _smell_ Henry’s cologne, feel the warmth coming off him where their shoulders nearly brush. With an incongruously steady hand, he reaches out and points to a graph he’s printed.

“Look, every time they go back to Switzerland, the value of their stocks dips. Sometimes by a lot.”

Henry examines the graph for a few moments, one broad finger tracing the Y axis thoughtfully.

“Indeed,” he murmurs, then turns the page. “And this?”

Alex swallows, wipes a clammy hand covertly on the side of his thigh before reaching out to run a hand down the list of names printed before them.

“Every company that’s invested in them for the last five years. The ones that invest while the Kinlochs are in Switzerland end up even or at a loss.”

Henry looks up just as Alex turns to glance at him — something like realisation in Henry’s black gaze, intrigue mingling with surprise, burning almost as hot as the thunderous look he’d given Alex right here in this room all those months ago. Their small motions bring their faces closer together, and Alex sucks in a breath and immediately looks down, his cheeks flushing hot.

“Come with me,” Henry commands, and stands up, leading the way out of the library. Alex dashes after him, half-jogging to keep up with Henry’s long, determined stride.

The quickest path to Henry’s office is past their bedrooms, and as they turn the corner, Alex catches sight of John coming the other way. Their eyes meet, and John’s narrow in suspicion.

“Alex?” he asks, his eyes flitting momentarily to his father and then back. Alex knows he’s asking - _are you in trouble?_

Alex is about to shake his head no when Henry breaks stride, turns to him and reaches out a hand, putting it firmly - paternally - on the back of Alex’s neck. 

Alex feels his heart skip three beats in a row, as a hot flush breaks out from the point where Henry is gripping him and shoots down his spine. 

“You should be in bed, Jack,” Henry says coolly as he steps past, pushing Alex along with him.

“It’s not even ten!” John protests, but his eyes are fixed on Henry’s hand - confused, suspicious, and more than a little angry.

“Come along, Alexander,” Henry insists with a long-suffering sigh.

Alex can’t look up into John’s eyes - even though he feels John’s gaze boring into him, asking silent, challenging questions - because it would risk revealing how blown his pupils are and how shamefully he wants Henry to tighten his hot grip. He shuffles past, as commanded, and stares down at the floor instead. As they round the corner out of sight, he hears the pointed slam of John’s bedroom door.

Henry unlocks his study door and leads Alex inside ahead of him, only then releasing his hold. He strides to his desk and, still standing, opens his laptop. After a few clicks, he looks up and meets Alex’s intent gaze with an extraordinarily rare smile.

“My, my, Alexander. Aren’t you a clever boy?”

These words, the sound of his full name spoken so _fondly_ — his knees feel like they might buckle. If Henry were standing closer, he would not bother to catch himself. 

“Thank you, sir,” he manages, and crosses the room cautiously to stand in front of Henry’s desk. There’s more he wants to say - ideas of his own for what Henry can verify given his broader access - but when Henry motions for him to sit down, Alex obeys with the same reverent immediacy he’s come to assume on being given any order by his foster father.

“And what prompted this impressively thorough investigation?”

Alex blushes slightly and shrugs, but his stomach is churning with delight. Not only was solving this puzzle immensely satisfying, Henry is _genuinely_ pleased with him. If a few hours’ work is deemed impressively thorough, how much more praise could he earn if he had spent an entire day on this? How much deeper could he go with Henry’s support and access?

“I saw Francis Kinloch today, at the service. He mentioned a few things that sounded strange, so I looked into it.”

“He’s a careful boy. Not one to drop such sensitive information thoughtlessly,” Henry says, crossing to a filing cabinet beside the door and beginning to flip through one of its drawers.

Is Alex imagining the mocking edge to his foster father’s tone? Is there the hint of a laugh there, the same one Alex heard on the night he’d let that congressman feel him up? He squirms in his seat, willing the blood away from his face.

“I-- I guess I caught him with his guard down.”

Henry’s hand stills over the filing cabinet and he turns to look at Alex, one eyebrow raised, his lip twitching in amusement.

“You needn’t keep your methods secret from me, Alexander. If you’ll recall, I am already familiar with some of the tactics you employ.”

Alex feels the blush he’s been trying to quell flash hotly across his cheeks. He came here thinking that this information - this potent demonstration of his value, intellect and determination — was what might finally show Henry that he isn’t a child, and that he can be trusted with more sensitive matters, both political _and_ personal. 

But he sees now that the information itself is only a small piece of the puzzle. Like with chess, it’s the _strategy_ that matters. Obfuscating how he got this from Francis doesn’t serve him; in fact, isn’t this opportunity screaming at him to be seized? He’s only escalating, in stake and method, what Henry already saw him do with the congressman.

Of course, Henry doesn’t need to know it happened in the church.

“I-- I don’t want you to be angry with me, sir,” he says quietly, letting just the slightest trace of fear colour his words. He raises and tilts his shoulders a little, keeping his eyes lowered. A display of nervousness, of embarrassment. 

Henry turns to face him now, his dark gaze intent. “Alexander - after being brought such valuable news, I’m hardly likely to reproach how it came to me,” he says, with the ghost of a predatory smile.

Alex raises a trembling hand to his face, and licks his lips as he pushes some hair behind his ear. Exposing himself, and letting Henry catch a glimpse of the possessive marks Francis left on him with his lips and his teeth.

“You told me you were planning to invest in the Kinlochs’ company, so I thought it was strange when I heard Francis mention to Louis that he was leaving for Europe. So I decided to have a--” he hesitates, picking his words carefully, “A private exchange with him.”

It looks better if he pretends he was the one who pursued Francis for this information, rather than it being the accidental outcome of an illicit encounter in a vestiary.

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Am I to understand that you offered - a trade?”

Alex sets his jaw defiantly against Henry’s implication. “We met up after, and when he told me what I wanted to know, I showed him how grateful I was. A little like,” he murmurs, lowering his tone, “How I helped with the congressman.”

Henry crosses the room and comes to stand directly behind him, his hands resting on the backrest of the chair just an inch from Alex’s shoulders. He’s out of Alex’s line of sight now, and Alex startles and inhales sharply when Henry’s fingers graze the marks on his neck for just a second. 

“It seems that you offered Francis rather _more._ ”

Alex swallows heavily. “Nothing that I wasn’t prepared to give him, sir. Him - or anyone else.” He pauses for a second to let the intention in his words ring clear. “It was good practice.”

Henry hums - again, his voice is tinged with that mocking note - and he walks over to stand behind his desk. He looks down at Alex with an aggravatingly neutral expression.

“Practice, Alexander?”

Alex bites his lip and chances a look up at Henry, playing up this nervous and naive version of himself as he decides exactly how much to tell his foster father.

“I’ve said before that I want to be useful. The more opportunities I have to help out, the better I’ll get.” 

“Well, yes, there is always room for improvement.”

Alex looks away and gives a petulant sort of shrug, trying to look put out. “You _don’t_ think I did well last time?” 

He may be acting, but there’s no denying that since he helped Henry by letting that congressman fondle him, he’s been wondering whether it meant as much to Henry as he’d initially thought. Henry has not mentioned it since; when they play chess, they talk about current affairs or what Alex is reading. It’s nothing close to the insights Alex has been yearning for, all about the power dynamics and intricacies of the political world that Henry inhabits.

Henry smiles, and the disinterested veneer breaks for a brief moment. 

“No, Alexander - your help proved very useful in my negotiation. But that childish tone does not serve you.”

“Sorry, sir,” he murmurs.

Henry’s eyes flash with amusement at his concession. “A boy like Francis does not suffer from lack of willing conquests. You must have done something special to - as you say, make him put down his guard.”

“I suppose I used that against him, sir. Made him chase me, after I’d hinted at what he could have.” Alex remembers how he’d flirted at the service; he lets his hand fall onto his upper thigh and digs his fingers in a little. Let Henry imagine that his own broad hand is staking a claim there.

Henry pushes off the wall and sits down in the chair opposite Alex. His relaxed, assured posture - with his head tilted back just a little — sends an electric pulse straight through Alex. Henry doesn’t need his stature to command a room. Alex is floored just by that look.

“And what did you learn, then, if you were trying to improve your strategy?”

“I-- Uh, I suppose I learnt that there’s a different skill set, and a different range of tactics to apply, when the situation is useful simply because it’s compromising in itself,” he glances up at Henry, then immediately back down again, “And when it’s useful for the information you can extract from it.”

Henry smiles broadly. “ _Very_ good. And did you find this new approach more challenging?”

Alex frowns. He hadn’t been trying to get anything out of Francis - it had sort of fallen into his lap. But isn’t that how these things work? If you meet the right people, and gain their trust, you don’t _need_ to dig. They simply deposit everything willingly and unwittingly into your outstretched hands.

“Not particularly.” He acutely remembers the congressman’s clammy, wandering hands; the excruciating discomfort at being watched from two sides, groped and examined and pulled apart and dismissed. “In fact,” he adds, “Today was easier. I had more freedom to choose what happened, and since I made the right decisions at the start, I didn’t have to pry at all in the end.”

Henry raises an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly, watching Alex squirm. “And, I suppose it helps that you enjoyed yourself,” he says lightly. “Our congressman was not quite as handsome as Francis Kinloch now, was he?”

“No, sir,” he breathes. As though he’s revelling in the recollection of having Francis’ cock shoved between his thighs and of being held roughly as he put his own hand on himself, he digs his fingers a little harder into the top of his thigh. He parts his lips a little and tilts his head back, and sees Henry’s eyes flick down across his body. 

Alex realises that remembering these things, while Henry watches him and _knows_ what he’s thinking about, is more delicious and complex and sinfully pleasurable than the act itself. He tries not dwell on how fucked up this thing with Henry is becoming.

“I know Francis Kinloch, and he isn’t the type of boy to be tricked easily. Has decadence in Europe dulled his wits, or is my pride in your abilities well-deserved?”

“I think, sir, that I have a knack for it.”

Henry laughs. “For tempting and pleasuring men, or for investigating financial corruption?”

Alex goes bright red, and when he clenches his hand around his thigh this time, it’s unconscious. “At the risk of sounding arrogant - both.”

Henry’s smile is soft and dangerous and unabashedly pleased.

“Jack would certainly not have been clever or shameless enough to do what you did - and all for the sake of this family. For the service you have done me today, I feel you deserve a reward.”

“Oh?” Alex wasn’t expecting this.

“Since you seem so eager to learn, I thought you might like to accompany me to D.C. the next time that I travel up. Jack would, of course, be required to join us as well. And perhaps, if you started to learn more about my work first hand, and if we arranged the right sort of _practice_ , you could become very useful indeed.” 

Alex swallows hard. He does not miss Henry’s inflection. 

Henry makes a show of glancing at the clock on the wall. “Now, you had best run along to bed, Alexander.”

He’s being dismissed. “That’s all I want, sir. Thank you,” Alex says quietly as he stands up to leave.

Fuck. 

He’s not going to have _dreams_ tonight - he’s going to have the most delicious nightmares.


	21. Chapter 21

On Monday a week later, at breakfast, Henry announces off-handedly that Alex and John will be travelling with him to D.C. - going up on Thursday and returning on Sunday. 

Alex is immediately flushed with excitement and panic, but he manages to stammer out his gratitude and hide the worst of his blush, even though Henry barely spares him a glance. John’s response is much cooler - a quiet sigh and a resigned nod. 

“What about me?” Martha snaps. Henry looks up at her. “Can I go too?”

Henry sighs. “Don’t be silly, now.”

She’s about to retort when Alex sees John put a covert hand on her arm; she swallows her words and scowls down at her plate instead. When breakfast finishes, Alex gets up to leave and notices John shoot him a glance and then whisper something to Martha. The two of them stay behind, and Alex hovers just outside the room. He can’t quite make out what they’re talking about, but he instantly feels left out and paranoid that he’s the topic of discussion. 

Then again, John hasn’t said more than ten words to him in the last week. 

Alex absorbs very little at school that day as his mind churns over the impending trip. He doesn’t think he’s gotten the wrong idea. Henry _has_ finally agreed to a marked escalation in their dangerous private dynamic - but after the tense and uncomfortable encounter with Francis, he can’t help but oscillate between excitement and a darker, colder worry that settles like a rock at the base of his stomach.

He could really use a big brother right about now. He wouldn’t be able to _tell_ John about this, obviously, but he could use that arm around his shoulder to soothe his nerves and John’s quick smile to remind him that, no matter what, things would turn out okay. 

But John’s playing his own childish games right now, avoiding Alex like his life depends on it and clearly upset about something. Every time John has been moody and withdrawn before, Alex has been excluded from his ire - or where he has been the target, John thawed after a day or two. A whole week is a new record. If it was the most obvious thing - Francis - then surely John would just be angry, rather than aloof and distant. Alex can’t figure out what _else_ it could be, though, and until he does, he’s not going to risk incriminating himself with an apology. 

Since he can’t figure his way around the son, Alex goes back to thinking about the father - and about what Henry has now opened the door to. _Nothing_ about this is sensible, or decent. Is it even what he wants? Alex thinks so - he _has_ been working towards it all this time - though that feels like a moot point because he doubts he can back out now anyway. 

But is this really the smart course of action? Is he making this choice with his calculating, strategic mind - or the more dangerous and impulsive part of him that can’t shut out the intrusive thoughts of Henry’s hands on him every time he closes his eyes?

Would it even be legal? He recalls in a flash an idea he had long ago, about finding a way to get some sort of leverage on his foster father - just in case, just like he’s done with John.

He pulls out his phone covertly in the middle of class to double-check. And yes, his instinct is correct - D.C. law is different from South Carolina’s. The age of consent is eighteen unless both people are teenagers, and there are explicit prohibitions against sexual activity between caregivers and their wards. If he’s right about Henry’s intent, this could be his chance. A way to guarantee his future.

By the time the car picks them up to go home, Alex has everything worked out in his mind. But he’s going to need something from John, and that might prove to be a problem.

\-----

John is sitting on his bed, his laptop on his raised knees and headphones over his ears, when Alex breezes into his bedroom. His foster brother doesn’t bother knocking. John would usually be fine with him barging in at all hours, but - not right now. He’s been avoiding Alex all week while he tries to figure out exactly how he’s managed to misjudge his foster brother so badly. 

John is starting to think he might just be a poor judge of character.

There’s a slight bounce to Alex’s step, but John can tell it’s not genuine; he must want something badly enough to break their uneasy separation. 

“Hey! What are you up to?” Alex says, all easy nonchalance.

For a long moment, John doesn’t acknowledge Alex’s entrance, keeping his eyes fixed on his laptop. He’s not sure he’s ready to talk. He’s not even sure if Alex understands _why_ he’s so upset.

Honestly, in his less raw and petty moments, John isn’t entirely clear on that either.

But he _is_ certain that Easter Sunday was just about the worst day he’s had in a long time - one of those days not where the entire world drops out from under your feet, but where the knife in your back that you hadn’t noticed twists deeper by degrees with every little insult and betrayal. He hasn’t been able to sleep properly since. When he lies down, his brain replays every humiliating moment, and the empty space beside him that Alex regularly occupies mocks him.

The thing with Frankie was entirely, agonisingly humiliating. John might not have a ton of experience, but even he could see the flush on Frankie’s cheeks and smell the faint muskiness from whoever he had snuck away to fool around with. And it would have been _fine_ \- wasn’t that what he wanted in the first place, for Frankie to solve his dilemma and find someone else? - if only Frankie hadn’t then come back to rub it in. To goad him with that breath-stealing smile and that hot hand on his lower back, as if to say, _look at what_ you _could have had._

Yeah, and he’d called Frankie his best friend, once.

He might have been able to handle it if Alex had been there, but his foster brother had vanished too - even though Alex had _promised_ to stick by his side. John had been left alone to squirm under Martha’s pitying gaze and Louis’ ridiculing one while Alex ran off to ‘network’ with all the awful conservative kids John does his best to avoid. Alex was probably just sick and tired of babysitting him - so pathetic and spineless that he can’t get over the churning nausea he feels at the thought of reciprocating even a little of Frankie’s interest.

Worst of all, Alex hadn’t come to check on him that afternoon, hadn’t bothered to show up for dinner or find an excuse to barge in and distract him. He thought Alex cared about him enough to do that - but perhaps not. Apparently Alex is just as selfish as everyone else in John’s life.

He’d become even less certain of Alex’s fondness for him later than night, when he’d faced his dad - and all his cruel jabs, spoken and implicit - and Alex hadn’t even had the decency to _look_ at him. John knows well enough that he’s a failure of an eldest son, but it was just too much for Henry to demote him like that with a casual hand on Alex’s neck, not even bothering to throw out an insult or a sneering look - and without Alex even _pretending_ that was not exactly what he’s been after all along. 

Yeah, and he’d thought his dad cared about him, once.

That betrayal stings even more. It’s his worst nightmare come true - that Henry has managed to win Alex over after all, despite John’s efforts to persuade Alex not to fall into this trap. He’s been losing this battle for months now - ever since the chess games started - but he hadn’t realised until Sunday night that the war was already over and no one had told him. 

Fuck! He should be used to being disappointed by everyone he gets close to. Why did he think Alex would be any different?

He tries to remind himself that it’s irrational to be mad at _Alex_ for all these things. Alex isn’t the one who made Frankie go off with someone else, and Alex isn’t the one who somehow conspired to become his dad’s favourite son. 

No - John managed to push both of them away all on his own. 

Now he’s doing the same to Alex - and even though he knows his shitty attitude is straining whatever bond they have, some stubborn part deep inside refuses to concede. He has the right to be hurt. Surely, for _once,_ it’s not his job to be the bigger person.

But he can’t keep pretending forever that he doesn’t see Alex hovering near his bed, so he exhales an exaggerated sigh and pulls his headphones down. 

“Oh. Hi.” His tone isn’t welcoming, but he’s too tired to feign anything politer. Alex bounds over and flings himself down beside him, ignoring the cold greeting.

“Are you excited for D.C.? Didn’t you say you had loads of friends up there?”

“Watch out,” John mutters as Alex jostles his laptop. He closes it carefully. “I do.” That’s the one thing that’s going to make this trip tolerable. He’s spent enough time up in D.C. that he has a small but reliable clique of acquaintances he can go have fun with - there was even talk of a house party.

Alex grins, though there’s a sarcastic edge to it. “Okay. Well, I’ve been meaning to ask, I need a hand with a project I’m going to do while we’re there. For politics class?”

“What project?” John asks suspiciously.

Alex waves his hand, not quite looking him in the eye. “Just some bullshit thing he set us for extra credit. I was going to interview people about working in public service.”

The gall of Alex, to ask him for a favour. “I’m busy,” John says, short and cold. 

Alex scowls slightly, dropping some of the friendly act. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to _do_ anything. God forbid. I just wondered if you had anything I could use to tape the interviews on.”

“Use your phone.”

Alex chews his lip. “Yeah, I _did_ think of that, but the microphone is shit and the sound comes out awful. Please?”

“Oh.” John pouts a little, for a moment his instinct is to soften or apologise, but he overrides it. If this is all Alex wants, he doesn’t know why he is bothering to act so chummy. But it’s such a small request, and he’s not a massive enough asshole to refuse. So he gets up off his bed with a sigh, careful not to touch Alex as he passes, and goes over to his closet. “Yeah, okay, I just need to dig around.” He starts rifling through boxes.

Alex flops back onto his bed and toys with a few strands of his hair. “It’s not going to be _that_ bad, you know. I mean, you could at least act like the idea of going somewhere with me right now isn’t completely intolerable.”

John’s shoulders tense up. Alex is not one to talk; twisting this to make it sound like John’s the one who’s in the wrong - when this person he’s been around lately feels less and less like Alex every day.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll _act_ the part.”

Alex laughs humourlessly. “Are you sure you’re up to it? Haven’t been doing much of that lately.”

John turns around, slipping effortlessly into that big, bright, fake smile he’s learnt to wear regardless of the pain churning underneath. “I’m sure we’ll have a _wonderful_ time,” he says, then drops the upbeat tone. “Or _you_ will, at least.”

Alex makes an irritated sound. “Should I take a leaf out of your book? Just be fucking miserable the entire time?”

“Since it’s your fault I have to go, the least you could do is let me be annoyed about it in peace.” He goes back to searching the boxes, his jaw clenched. Perhaps he should be grateful that his dad bothered to include him - but John knows it’s not a sign of affection; it would look inappropriate for Henry to take Alex up on his own. Can’t shun your eldest son in public, after all. What _would_ the D.C. gossips say?

Alex hums as though considering what John has said. “Oh, I get it, because you can’t be assed to stand up to your dad about it, you’re going to take it out on me? Makes sense.”

John whips around. How dare Alex talk about his own father to him? “Do _not_ start with that. In fact, I did go and tell him I didn’t want to get dragged along, since _obviously_ this trip is not about me, but - well. You know _my_ father doesn’t take no for an answer.” He puts a little emphasis on the possessive pronoun. Just as a reminder.

“Well I wish he would, since you are clearly determined to have a shit time. I think _we’d_ both be happier if you stayed here.” 

Oh, he hears Alex’s mocking emphasis in his retort.

“You know what? You go talk to him then. You suck up to him enough, so maybe he’ll actually listen to you.”

Alex glares at him. “I’m not your fucking messenger, and I only have a problem with you coming if you’re going to act like an asshole about it.”

John heaves an exasperated sigh. “Don’t worry, I’ll be seeing _my_ friends and going to parties on my own, so you won’t have to deal with me.” He pulls a small box out of the closet and turns it over to confirm it’s the little recorder he’s looking for.

“Perfect.” Alex says nastily. “Will that thing do? So I can leave you to sulk in peace?”

John holds it out, still standing, so that Alex would have to get up to take it. “Just don’t break it. Can you figure out how to use it on your own?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “I think I’ll manage. Thanks a lot. Sorry to have been such an immense burden.”

“Just--” He’s about to snap something sarcastic back, but there’s a microscopic note of genuine hurt in Alex’s voice on that last word, and it instantly cools his temper. _None of this is Alex’s fault,_ he reminds himself as he sighs and relents a little. “Just don’t forget to clear the SD card before you start recording, and if you use the built-in mic then you probably want to switch on the stereo function. Okay?” he says, offering the advice as a little olive branch.

To his surprise, Alex takes it. He bites his lip and asks, “How-- Um, how do you clear the SD card?”

John pulls the recorder out and turns it on, sitting down on the bed next to Alex. He fiddles with a few of the buttons to mask the swell of relief that they’ve stopped jabbing at each other. “Here,” he demonstrates. “In fact, let me just do it for you quick.” 

He works in silence for a moment, until Alex - never one for quiet - scuffs his heel on the carpet and mutters, “I don’t wanna be an asshole about it, but it’s just-- You’ve been avoiding me.” When John doesn’t respond, he adds, “So it’s sorta hard to act like everything’s fine.”

John doesn’t look up from the device, but his jaw tightens. For a moment he wants to deny it, but it’s not like he has bothered to be subtle about his grievance. His reply comes out bitter and sulky. “Guess I figured you were busy enough with dad that you didn’t need me bothering you.”

Alex groans. “John, I talk about Aristotle and shit with Henry, but I actually have _fun_ with you. Do you think me and him sit there cracking jokes?”

“I don’t know. But I _do_ know it’s a bit weird how close you two are. Considering all the stuff you used to say about him before.”

Alex gives an evasive shrug, which speaks volumes. “He knows a lot about the kind of stuff I want to study, and that I want to do after college. I’d be stupid not to make the best of it.”

“I just think you’re not being careful.”

Alex shrugs again, more confidently this time. “I know what I’m doing. You don’t need to worry about it. You know he gives pretty good career advice if you just listen, right?”

“I don’t mean the work stuff,” John says more quietly. He swallows, considering if he should say any more. It’s pretty clear that Alex’s opinion of his father has changed drastically, but John knows how this rollercoaster ride goes. Henry can make you feel like the biggest person in the world - and then bring you crashing back down with a single glance. “I remember those times when he would clap me on the shoulder and say ‘good job’ and all that shit. I know how it feels to be the centre of his attention.”

Alex smiles wryly. “You know I have a knack for getting attention when I want it. I don’t have to resort to Henry for that.”

John finally looks up at him, exasperated. “Stop it. I hate it when you talk around the stuff I’m saying. I know how it feels, _and_ I know what it’s like when it stops- because let me tell you, it won’t last. You think you’re his favourite person in the world right now? Well, you only stay interesting until someone better comes along.”

Alex heaves a sigh, like John has just said something silly and overwrought. “Look, what I’m saying is… I’m not dependent on him, not for attention, not for anything. I’m careful, and I have you, okay?”

John doesn’t reply for a long, tense moment. Then he holds up the recorder. He can’t keep beating his head against this wall. “Stereo switch is here. Press this one to record and this to play back,” he says, keeping his voice neutral.

Alex takes it from him and examines the switches for a moment. “Alright. And it’s good? It’s not going to cut off halfway through or pick up loads of background noise?”

“You can get a solid two hours on here, and most of those senate offices are pretty well insulated so there won’t be lots of noise. Test it around the house and you’ll see.”

Alex nods. “Well, thanks.” Although the mood between them has thawed a little, they certainly aren’t back on their previous footing. Alex must sense it too, because he offers a wry smile. “I’ll cover for you, if you need me to - you know, when you go to parties and stuff while we’re there.”

“Don’t bother. Dad isn’t expecting any better from me anyway.”

Alex shrugs. “Not your problem. Might as well have a good time if you’re being _forced_ to come.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I never did hear how you managed to talk him into a whole D.C. trip.”

“I didn’t. He just brought it up the other day.”

Alex puts on a very convincing nonchalant expression, but John narrows his eyes. This doesn't sound like his father at all - to bestow the honour of a trip up to the capital for no good reason - and it’s also clear Alex knows more than he’s letting on. “Weird. Wonder what he’s up to.”

For some reason, this comment turns Alex defensive. “Is it _that_ far out of left field that he might, I dunno, just think it would be a good experience for me? I’m going to Georgetown in the fall. I want to go into politics. One plus one. Not everything is some big conspiracy.”

John snorts. “ _My_ father doesn’t do things out of the goodness of his heart.”

But Alex shrugs him off. “Maybe it’s for the same reason he fosters kids. It looks good. I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth here.”

Alex is either intentionally missing the point, or he has some deeper insight he’s not sharing. John lets out a long sigh. “The fact that you’re sticking up for him is weird. Just watch out, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, yeah. You know what I’m like - all naive and gullible. That’s _such_ helpful advice. Thanks so much, John.”

“You know what?” John closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you should leave before I get properly annoyed at you again.”

Alex gets to his feet, frowning. “You know what, me too. Thanks for this.” He holds up the recorder and makes for the door, scowling.

“Yeah.” John grabs his laptop again. “Don’t know why I bother trying to talk sense into you, you know everything better already.” He sticks his headphones back on pointedly, just to make sure he has the last word.

Alex clenches his jaw hard, and John knows he’s working hard to stop himself from yelling something. He wishes he _would_. Things would be less complicated if they were both just furious at each other. Alex flings open the door and storms out, not bothering to close it behind him.

A few moments later, John gets up and slams the door shut himself.

\-----

The restaurant they go to for dinner on Friday night, a small and discreet place near the Capitol building, is the nicest Alex has ever set foot in by a mile. 

It’s the perfect conclusion to a whole incredible day of wandering the halls of government buildings in Henry’s wake, meeting people he’s read about on the news and breathing the refined air here at the very pinnacle of political power and influence. 

Even John has the courtesy not to spoil it for him. Alex is not entirely sure if John is just _acting_ normal or if he’s actually gotten over his moody patch - but like stables-John, D.C.-John is a different person. He carries himself like the politicians’ kids Alex has gotten to know, and even Henry seems to respond to him more favourably when John acts like the handsome, witty and well-mannered prize jewel in the Laurens family crown that he’s supposed to be. Whenever they bump into someone Henry knows, he proudly shares how John is going to attend his alma mater in the fall, and even mentions his polo achievements as he claps John fondly on the shoulder. Alex can’t help feel just a little left out, seeing John’s easy rapport with these people he’s known all his life - but the feeling vanishes instantly as soon as Henry adds, “Oh, and you must meet Alexander, who’s showing some real academic promise too.”

Alex and John hang back as Henry tells the hostess the name under the reservation - though it’s nothing more than a polite formality. Alex can tell Henry was recognised the second he entered. 

Alex can’t help but stare in wonder at the restaurant, just busy enough that the low hum of conversation and clinking cutlery adds to the refined atmosphere. The lights are pleasantly low; wine glasses and polished silver cutlery gleam at every table.

“Have you been here before?” he murmurs to John, though he’s not exactly sure why he feels the need to keep his voice low.

John nods, looking a little morose. Clearly this place isn’t making the same impression on him. “Yeah. Loads.” 

Alex grins, refusing to let John’s mood infect him. “It’s really nice. Is the food good?”

His foster brother shrugs, folding his arms. “Yeah, I guess. A lot of it is weird stuff like veal, so I usually get pasta. But,” he lets out a low, grumbling sigh, “I'd rather be at that party with my friends. It’s not like this is an event or anything. I don’t _have_ to be here.” He shoots a glance at Henry.

Alex shrugs, watching a waiter pass with plates of food that he doesn't recognise. Okay, so maybe John _has_ been acting, and perhaps more than just a little. “Henry said you could go after this.”

“Yeah.”

He and John have at least started speaking since their argument several nights ago, but conversations have been like this one, terse and one sided. Alex knows it’s in his best interests to keep John on his side - that the closer they are, the more blinkered John will be to anything, _everything_ , that happens between him and Henry. Still, he has more to think about right now than joking around with John, so he takes the cool response as his excuse to end the conversation.

Alex startles as Henry turns to usher them inside. He doesn’t know why John wants to go to some townhouse in the suburbs, full of rich kids pretending to slum it with cheap beer and awful music, when he could be here instead. Doesn’t John see this the same way Alex does - as a mark of their maturity? That Henry would take them here, where D.C.’s elite convene to casually wield the kind of power Alex has been thirsting after for years?

Of course he doesn’t, Alex reminds himself with a stab of indignation. When _hasn’t_ John taken the wealth, power and influence he was born into for granted?

They take their seats at a table by the window. Alex scans the menu warily, not recognising many of the dishes. Does every wealthy D.C. socialite speak Italian or something? He adds it to his long mental list of things he needs to learn. He’d never even considered it before tonight, and he realises that even getting a Georgetown degree won’t guarantee he fits in seamlessly here. 

“Alexander, do you know what you’d like to order?”

Alex realises that he’s been staring at the menu intently, trying to decipher what _bucatini all’amatriciana_ is. He hesitates, wildly scanning the dishes and wondering whether he should just take a stab at pronouncing one. It occurs to him, however, that his naivety amuses Henry. He detests the whole rags-to-riches _Annie_ shtick, but this time he doesn’t actually have to act it - so he may as well play into it for Henry’s sake.

“Uh, what would you recommend? I don’t really recognise a lot of this stuff.”

Henry laughs and leans in to look at Alex’s menu, his arm just brushing Alex’s for a second. “I _did_ expect as much, my boy, but you’ll learn these things in time.” 

_My boy?_

That’s new. Alex is used to the old-fashioned moniker ‘boy’, or the more common, stilted ‘Alexander’. But this is more paternal, a little more affectionate - and not to mention possessive. 

He files it away, because Henry speaks with such purpose that it can’t possibly be a slip of the tongue. He also ignores the subtle taunt, because Henry always undercuts any approval or praise with something nastier.

Henry points to a dish under the ‘house specials’ section, but Alex is instantly distracted by that hand so close to him, in a context where he can look at it without worrying that he’ll be caught staring. 

“I’m quite partial to this one - the venison with wild rice and mushrooms.”

Alex tries to look interested, but Henry must notice the slight wrinkle of his nose at the suggestion. He tuts and flips the menu over, shooting Alex an amused glance, as though Alex has failed some sort of test. “Pasta then, hm? The seafood spaghetti is good. Jack, you’ve had it a few times?”

John looks up, sliding his phone surreptitiously into his pocket and nodding vaguely. “Uh, yeah. It’s fine.”

It’s the least objectionable of all the things he’s deciphered so far. He nods gratefully, turning to Henry again, who’s perusing the wine menu.

“I’ll get that. Uh, thank you.”

Henry inclines his head slightly, but doesn’t look away from the menu. Alex takes this distraction as an opportunity to lean over to John, smirking. “Hey, what are the odds they’d serve us booze here if Henry allowed it?”

John shrugs. “I dunno. Decent? But eat quickly, okay? I wanna be out of here before nine.”

Alex nods, a little deflated, and begins to fiddle with the cloth napkin in front of him. He knows he wouldn’t even have had a good time at this party if John had invited him, would have felt out of place among all the politicians’ kids, but he’d have appreciated the offer. Maybe he and John could have spent the evening getting high on the couch, making fun of everyone else under their breath. Or maybe he’d have turned it down, but at least then he’d know John wanted him around.

For the first time, he’s starting to question whether that’s still true.

If John is going to be antsy and distant the entire meal, the brunt of conversation with Henry will fall to him. It’s all well and good to discuss politics over a chess game, in private, but to chat here with a sullen John present? After everything that’s passed between him and John, and him and Henry in the last few weeks? Their verbal sparring matches carry an undertone of something darker and more allusive - and, oblivious as John might appear to be, it’s too much of a risk that he’ll pick up on the dangerous flirtation.

“Alexander.” He looks up at the sound of Henry’s voice, the slightly stern edge to his tone, and jumps when a large hand closes around his wrist to halt his nervous fidgeting. “Don’t fuss, it isn’t polite.”

Alex feels his face burning, not only at the admonishment but at the sudden physical contact right in front of John. Is Henry _trying_ to turn him into a nervous wreck? He feels the back of his neck go hot and his fingers flex instinctively.

And then, the firm grip is gone as quickly as it came, and Alex stutters his apology, dropping the napkin like it has burnt him. John is none the wiser, scanning the room in a bored, blasé sort of manner, thoroughly unimpressed.

Alex feels irritation bubbling up inside him. He turns pointedly away from John and back to Henry - who is studying him, shrewd and searching. Alex clears his throat, drumming his fingers nervously against his thigh under the table.

“So…” Alex starts, eager to move the conversation to something he’s at ease discussing, “I was looking at some polls earlier, do you think there’s any chance Pennsylvania goes red this election?”

Henry smiles, tilting his head slightly. “So keen to talk politics? One would think _you_ were the elected official here.”

Alex laughs. “Well, we _are_ in D.C.”

Henry nods to a passing server, pushing away his menu and throwing Alex an amused glance. “Which is why you must learn to talk politics without being quite so obvious about it.”

Alex digests this as the server takes their orders - this implication that he’s here to observe and learn; that Alex could have a place in this city if he lets Henry teach him to claim it. 

The conversation is light as they wait for their food, though John is quiet and restless, paying little attention and perpetually looking over his shoulder for the server. Alex almost feels sorry for him. He’s been monopolising conversation with Henry all day, so it’s no wonder John wants to escape into a domain he’s more comfortable in.

“I suppose my son is slipping off after this to drink entirely too much with his friends?” Henry murmurs to Alex, while John peers unsubtly down at the phone he’s hidden in his lap.

Alex smiles mysteriously and shrugs, deciding neither to confirm nor deny this. There’s no real _anger_ in Henry’s voice, anyway - at worst some disapproval tinged with resigned amusement.

“You could think of it as networking,” Alex suggests, looking up into his foster father’s face with a daring smirk and meeting that cool gaze.

“Unfortunately, Jack doesn’t quite have your head for politics,” he says, quirking an eyebrow, “Or opportunity.”

Alex barely suppresses a grin as John looks back up, eyes the two of them, and figures out instantly that they were talking about him.

He feels a small twinge of guilt for giving the impression that they are completely ignoring John’s presence. Still, Alex reminds himself, he has come closer than he ever has to his goal. Henry’s looks have warmed by degrees over the past days; lingering just a little longer, boring deeper into him. Even this dinner is an escalation. If he has to ignore John to keep Henry’s attention, he’ll do it.

The food comes, and Alex makes sure to lean a little into Henry to allow the server to put his plate down. For a brief moment, he thinks he feels the light press of a hand against his waist, but he doesn’t dare believe he really felt this touch that he’s coveted the very _thought_ of for so long.

“What do you think of the city so far, Alexander?” Henry asks, starting on his food as Alex looks hesitantly down at his pasta. John looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but Alex looks away before he can see whether his foster brother resists the urge or not.

He picks up his knife and fork, deciding to eat around the clams for now. “Uh, I like it a lot. I mean, I suppose I’ll be living here soon, so it’s good to get to know it.”

Henry glances to John, who’s twirling some spaghetti absently around his fork, lost in thought again. “Jack, will you be free tomorrow to show Alexander around the city a little? Introduce him to the things you young people like to do here.”

John frowns down at his plate. “I was planning to see a friend tomorrow.” 

Alex can’t help but feel a small stab of hurt at the rejection. 

He supposes he deserves it for how hard he’s been playing the part of the perfect son around Henry as he tries to tempt him into something more lurid. He pushes this thought away quickly. Best not to remind himself how he’s betraying John in all this. 

Henry raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had such a full schedule, Jack. What will Alexander do by himself?”

John shrugs and finally looks up, levelling his father with an unhappy glare. “It’s D.C. If he’s interested in politics, he won’t get bored. And it’s not like _you_ can’t show him around.”

There’s a half-second of silence following this remark, and Alex senses John has pushed further than Henry would normally allow. He bites his lip, putting down his glass and trying a grin. 

“It’s fine. I’ll manage. John doesn’t want me tagging along after him.”

“No, Jack,” Henry says, ignoring Alex’s comment. Alex suddenly realises he’s the one being left out of the conversation, and it’s not a good feeling. “Your priority is to your family. I have already been overly lenient in allowing you to venture off on your own this evening.”

John puts his fork down with a loud clatter. “This is bullshit.”

“Manners, Jack!” Henry scolds at once. “You will do as I say, or you will confine yourself to your room.”

John glares across the table, then flicks his eyes to Alex. “Fine.”

Alex swallows thickly around a mouthful of pasta, feeling his cheeks heat a little at suddenly being a pawn in an entirely different kind of chess match. He chances a look up at his foster father and meets an unreadable gaze - challenging, or perhaps expectant. 

“Thank you, sir,” he murmurs, hoping John won’t hear. But of course his words carry, and John sighs under his breath.

“Did you have plans for this evening, Alexander?” Henry asks. 

Oh. Oh fuck. 

“Um. Not really, sir. Do you?”

Henry makes a thoughtful sound, picking up his glass of wine and raising it to his lips. He takes a drink, leaving Alex waiting for several long moments before responding. The low, gruff tone sends a shiver down Alex’s spine - a frightening but pleasant one.

“I had thought about revisiting the assistance you rendered me, in regards to our friend the congressman.”

Alex nods, and he can’t help the way his shoulders twitch involuntarily at the suggestion, his hand curling tighter around his knife. The reminder of this incident is enough to colour his cheeks - staring into the eyes that are boring into him now while another man slid a hand up his shirt, pressed the other between his thighs--

“I have a lot to learn,” he admits - shooting a glance to see if John is paying any attention to this sudden change of topic - and Henry lets out a soft chuckle, inclining his head. 

“So I have realised,” he says dryly. “But practice makes perfect, and you _are_ a quick study.”

 _Practice._

Alex has been listening out for their euphemism all night long - and now he feels as though the entire restaurant can sense the energy crackling darkly at their table. Surely they can all smell the fear and anticipation on his skin, the perverse excitement, the sheer _wrongness_ of it all.

“I think I could learn a lot from you, sir,” Alex murmurs, keeping his eyes low. Henry’s soft hum of agreement sounds so close to Alex’s ear, he thinks his hair would brush Henry’s lips with his own if he only turned and looked up a little. He feels a sharp tingle dance over his scalp and fights the urge to shudder. 

He makes sure to slide the next forkful slowly past his lips, allowing his eyes to flick up to meet Henry's for the smallest fraction of a second. He knows how he must look - mouth open, eyes gazing upwards from under his lashes - and finally sees something hot and terrifying kindle in Henry’s expression. 

Then Henry turns away from him and back towards John. The flame between them gutters and snuffs out in an instant. This is all just chess, Alex realises. Feints and lures and traps, sacrificing small pieces for bigger gains. Tactical retreats. 

“Jack, we agreed you’d be back for midnight?”

John nods. “Yeah. That’s fine. It’s only down the road in Woodley, anyway.”

“Make sure you keep me updated on your whereabouts,” Henry says sternly, “And send me a message when you are back.”

John nods, starting to eat a little faster. He’s already cleared twice as much of his plate as Alex, and suddenly Alex is not quite so eager for this dinner to be over and for John to leave. He chances a look at Henry - aggravatingly composed, while Alex feels like a wreck. And Henry hasn’t so much as laid a finger on him. Yet. 

But he beats down this brief flash of apprehension and chews intently on a forkful of spaghetti. Whatever Henry is suggesting, it won’t be the kind of thing he’d want taped, which is precisely what Alex is planning. If he plays this right, he’ll gain the kind of invisible power over Henry that can’t be simply eroded away by clever political manoeuvring. He needs to do this. He _wants_ to do this. 

When the waiter clears their plates, Alex feels his heart rate climbing. Whatever happens next, it will irrevocably change everything.

“You didn’t finish your dinner,” Henry observes coolly.

Alex cringes. He hates leaving food on his plate, but his stomach was too tight to choke any more down. “Sorry, sir. It was nice, but...”

“No, no, that’s quite all right,” Henry hums. “One should not overindulge.”

Henry has the bill sent ahead to their hotel with the briefest stroke of a pen and John wastes no time in getting to his feet and accepting his coat from the doorman. Henry takes his time. He places a heavy hand on Alex’s shoulder as he tells the server to send his greeting to the chef, and leads John and Alex at a leisurely pace from the restaurant. 

Alex doesn’t miss the fifty-dollar tip that changes hands, accepted with a courteous nod from the server and hardly a second glance from Henry. Another thing he needs to get used to. Fifty dollars was once his entire stash of emergency money.

They part ways with John at the door. Alex guesses he has a change of clothes in his elegant satchel bag, and eye-drops too, if he’s planning on getting high. Alex knows John’s discretionary measures well by now. 

John claps him on the shoulder a little stiffly as they walk to the curb to wait for his Uber. For some reason, this unexpected attempt at brotherly affection brings a lump to Alex’s throat. John doesn’t meet his eyes as he scans the street for the taxi and hitches his bag higher up his shoulder.

“I guess I’ll see you later?” Alex nods mutely, trying to affect an unconcerned grin. John flicks his head to Henry, who is waiting at the door of the restaurant, watching them. “Don’t let him bore you to death with all the D.C. tourist shit. He’s been in a good mood today, so he’ll probably let you go off alone and do something fun if you just ask.”

Alex nods, swallowing thickly. “Yeah. Noted. Have a good time.”

John smiles, for the first time this evening. “Planning on it. Oh and, by the way, I dunno if I’ll be back by midnight. I figure as long as I _tell_ dad I’m leaving around quarter to, I can stay a bit later. You still okay covering for me?”

Alex isn’t going to shut down the opportunity to have John out of the way a little longer, or to start mending their rift. “Sure. I said I would.”

John watches a silver car pull up to the curb in front of him. He rubs the back of his neck, looking guilty. 

“Thanks. I wish I didn’t have to ask.”

Alex nods absently. “Don’t worry about it.”

John glances at him for a second, and Alex notes with a glimmer of irritation that the concern that so often colours his foster brother’s expressions towards him has returned.

“Well, this is me. You gonna be okay?”

“Of course,” Alex says with a scoff.

John nods, gets into the taxi and drives away. 

Somewhere over his shoulder, Henry calls his name and waves him towards their waiting towncar. Henry is silent on the ride back to the hotel, checking his emails while Alex watches D.C. roll by, the silver grass of the Mall and the humming streets of downtown, trying to settle his nerves. When the car pulls to a stop outside the hotel, Henry turns to him, his face in shadow, only the flash of gold on his left hand and those piercing eyes catching any light. 

“Jack may spend his time in D.C. frivolously, but you’re more sensible than that, aren’t you, Alexander?”

He glances towards the driver, sitting stoically at the wheel and staring ahead as though deaf to the conversation happening behind him. Of course, Henry’s drivers are discreet. Alex watches Henry for a moment, lowering his chin so he can look up at his foster father from under his lashes.

“I can’t afford to waste time. I have too much to learn.”

Henry’s eyes narrow a little and he smiles, mysteriously satisfied - as though he has a play he’s yet to make. Alex twitches when a hand comes to rest on his knee. It’s only a light touch but it sets off such a dizzying rush of fear and adrenaline that it might as well be a shackle restraining him to his seat.

“Always such an eager study. Perhaps you should come up in a little while, if you’re serious about learning how to succeed here.”

Alex can feel the blood pounding in his ears, but somehow he manages to nod. The hand leaves his knee, and Alex feels alarmingly untethered, as though he’s in danger of falling to pieces without the grounding weight of it. Henry gives him a slightly pitying look then, all amused condescension, and opens the door of the car.

Alex’s fingers fumble with his seat belt and he can feel the blood rushing to his face as Henry climbs out of the car and walks towards the hotel. Everything he’s been working towards for the past year has finally paid off, and he has no idea how to feel about it.

———

He’s not _actually_ going to do this. Is he? 

It’s crazy, Alex thinks as he stares at Henry’s hotel room door. Henry might have invited him here, but _everything_ he does is a game or a calculated move, so chances are that he’s not even here - or that he’ll just scoff and smirk and send Alex away with his tail between his legs. 

But this is also Alex’s best chance. He runs his fingers over the hard edges of the little recorder that John loaned him through the fabric of his jacket pocket. If everything goes to plan, Alex will have a sword so big to dangle over Henry’s head that not even the senator will be able to escape from it.

Alex isn’t planning on using the evidence of this encounter unless he absolutely has to - but just the secret knowledge that he has something on Henry will tilt everything in his favour. 

He raises his hand to knock. His fist hovers in mid-air. 

He’s not _nervous._ That would be stupid, because Alex has done his prep - he’s watched a bunch of videos explaining the mechanics of the act he’s hoping and dreading to engage in, and he even stuck a finger inside himself when he was taking a shower the other day. It was a little uncomfortable, sure, but Alex reckons that was just because of the angle. Besides, he’s given and received more than a few handjobs, and he wasn’t completely bluffing about having sucked guys off either. 

Ugh. He’s being so stupid. It’s just sex. It was bound to happen eventually, so he may as well get it over with. 

He knocks.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned - dubious consent and unsavoury sex ahead!  
> \---  
> On an unrelated note... This chapter is dedicated to meme-queen and putting-up-with-our-bullshit-legend @cyanspica! <3

There’s a long, heavy silence, then footsteps. The door opens and Henry smiles knowingly at him.

“Can I help you, Alexander?” he asks, almost mocking. 

Alex’s heart thuds. Is Henry just toying with him, after all? “You said I should come past your room, sir, once--”

“And here you are,” Henry says, low and amused. “Come for your lesson?”

“Yes, sir.”

Henry slowly raises one eyebrow. “You’d best come inside, then.”

Alex hesitates for only a second, then steps into the room, passing just inches from Henry. His heart gives a little extra jump at the sound of the door closing, but he has enough presence of mind to slip a hand into his pocket and switch on the recorder.

Henry walks over to his dresser and picks up the glass of whiskey he left there.

“You are very eager to please, Alexander. But if you are to be useful to me in the way you were with the congressman, then I think you need a little more schooling. Are you ready to learn?”

Alex swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Henry strolls around where Alex is standing, awkward and out of place in the middle of the room, and pauses when he’s out of view. “You’re very stiff, boy. Relax. Do you need something to take the edge off?”

Alex tries to loosen his posture, but he just feels gangly and tense. “That might help, sir,” he mumbles.

Henry goes over to the minibar and pours one of the small bottles of liquor into a clean glass. He brings it over to Alex. “Drink this.”

Alex takes the glass in one clammy hand. “All at once, or--?”

Henry smirks, so Alex raises the glass to his lips and gulps it down in one go. It burns like fire, but he manages not to cough. Henry takes the glass out of his shaking hand.

“Your advantage, Alexander, is that you have a naïve, almost innocent air about you. The first lesson - play into that. Let yourself be underestimated.” Henry crosses his arms and appraises him, like he’s stripping him down to his bones. “Tilt your head down a little. Act shy.”

Alex does, and for good measure he pouts his lips a little and cants his hips. “Like that?” he asks softly.

“Oh yes, that’s very good.” 

Alex isn’t looking up at Henry’s face anymore, but he hears the note of genuine approval. He bites his lip and scuffs his heel on the carpet. Henry hums.

“Now, the assistance that you will be rendering me requires that you master and perform the appropriate physical responses. Tell me - how should you react when your target decides to touch you?”

Alex sucks in a breath. This feels like a trick question. “I don’t know.”

Out of nowhere, Henry’s hand shoots out and grazes his hip - just a few inches from where the little recorder is tucked securely in his jacket pocket. An electric bolt of fear and surprise shoots through Alex’s skin and he jerks away.

“No, no,” Henry says, clearly annoyed. “If you flinch, that will send the wrong message. Try again.”

Alex sucks in his lip and nods quickly as he tries to nudge his jacket surreptitiously out of the way. Henry reaches for his hip again, and this time he grips more firmly. Alex draws a steadying breath in and then shifts his weight, leaning into the touch. His cheeks immediately flush red. 

This is wrong. So wrong. He should not be taking part in this.

For a second, all he feels is fear, and he seriously considers pushing Henry away and dashing from the room - but then Henry’s fingers curl more tightly around his hip, stroking the tender skin there, and he feels heat flood down between his legs. He’s fantasised about these hands, and now they are finally on him. He can’t give this opportunity up. No way.

He hums and leans into the grip.

“A little _too_ eager now, Alexander, for the role you are meant to play. But this is a nice touch,” Henry says, reaching up with his other hand and caressing Alex’s flushed cheek delicately with the backs of his fingers. “Can you do that on command?”

Alex shakes his head no.

“Then you’d best learn.” Henry casts his eye over him and withdraws his hands. “Take off your jacket.”

Alex slips it off carefully, exhaling with relief and making sure not to let the recorder slip out. He drapes it on a nearby armchair. He tested the microphone in his own room and knows it’s good quality; it should be able to pick up everything even from this distance.

Henry appraises him coolly. 

"The second lesson. You have good features, but your overall appearance needs some refinement. We shall need to get the tailor to make you some better-fitting trousers. And you must not put on any more weight; you will want to appear delicate. Fragile." Henry flicks his eyes up to Alex’s face, and Alex pulls his lips tight. "Oh, but you're _not_ fragile, are you, Alexander?" he asks, just the barest hint of mockery as he reads the sentiment beneath his expression. "Of course not. You will put up with anything, just to prove you’re a smart, tough boy. Is that right?” 

Alex bites the inside of his cheek. As much as he wants to speak, there’s no good answer to this question. His mouth is too dry to speak, anyway, as his anticipation and arousal shift to make room for an instinctual, fierce spark of defiance.

“You’re not afraid of pain. You’re cynical and arrogant. Angry. These are useful qualities, Alexander, but only if you learn how to _mask_ them.”

Alex tightens his fists and feels his neck flush hot, then cold. It seems like Henry has flipped through him like an open book.

Henry steps up beside him and leans close to his ear. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “Just _how_ far I could push you before you broke.”

Alex grinds his teeth. He _knows_ Henry’s just trying to goad him, but it’s working. The hot, angry flame he’s been trying to smother flares up. “Try me,” he growls.

“Oh, I will. And do I hope that you will put up a fight as I try to tame and mold you. Young people these days are so frustratingly sensitive.”

“I’m not a kid.”

Henry smiles darkly. “Oh, you’re all grown up, are you?”

Henry thinks he is making fun of him, but he’s right - Alex forced himself to grow up when he was twelve, and has been taking care of himself ever since. He gave up the shackles of helplessness and naivety as soon as he realised they were threatening his survival. And he suddenly realises the irony of this situation - even now, after all this lecturing, Henry can’t see past his age and appearance. Can’t see that Alex is already doing the things he’s instructing him on - obfuscating, acting, deflecting, appearing to be beyond suspicion or threat. That’s good. Because Henry’s right about that too - Alex can use this to his advantage.

He feels a fresh emotion - a little secret rush of confidence that empowers him - but he plays into Henry’s mockery and twists his lips into a childish pout. “I _am_ ,” he insists with a hint of a whine. Let Henry think he’s touched a nerve. 

“Is that why you took the blame for the marijuana? To show you’re tougher than Jack? Or did you just enjoy being admonished?"

Ah, so Henry figured that one out, then. “I took the blame to get John on my side,” Alex says. 

“Yes, yes, you’re clever too, Alexander. Don’t show it so much. People don’t like being made to feel inferior.” 

Henry circles around him. Alex feels a hand grab onto the back of his neck, then the tug on his hair as Henry pulls out his hair tie. His hair falls down around his shoulders, chasing the icy rush down his spine.

“We will need to neaten this up, but the length is good.” Henry’s hand, still on his neck, slides up along the curve of his skull - then suddenly tightens around a handful of Alex’s hair and pulls sharply down. Alex gasps at the flash of pain. “Yes, convenient,” Henry says, and lets go. He comes to stand in front of Alex and crosses his arms.

“The next lesson. I assume you know what to do with your hands and your mouth?” he asks, without preamble, and without dropping his hard, unemotional stare.

In the face of Henry’s disinterested tone, Alex flushes and has to force himself to keep his eyes up. He nods; it’s true enough, even if he’s had to fumble his way through a few of these encounters.

“Good. Then we will focus on other things.” Henry watches him intently as Alex swallows. “Take your clothes off.”

Alex can’t hold eye contact anymore. He bites down on his lip and raises his trembling hands to the buttons of his shirt. He has to remind himself - _I chose this, I need this, I want this_.

He gets through the first few buttons before Henry sighs deeply and says, “No, Alexander. Do better. Your target is not going to be a desperate teenager. You need to lure him in.”

Oh. Alex berates himself silently; he’s spent so much energy absorbing the intensity of the situation that he’s switched off his strategic brain. He needs to get back into the game. With Henry, there’s no room for error or genuine emotional vulnerability.

The reminder that this is a _game_ \- a chess match of sorts - brings his mind into sharper focus. 

Alex tilts his head down again, but he’s not bowed in shame this time - his brain is calculating furiously. Suggestion, he realises, is the key to a seduction like this. The times he got Henry’s attention were not the ones where he flung himself boldly forward - but rather those moments where he was coy, playful, a little hesitant or deferential. He can use that.

He licks his lips, then steps forward and past Henry, just barely brushing his arm, and walks over to the floor-to-ceiling window. He finishes unbuttoning his shirt, then reaches behind himself to slowly untuck it from the back of his pants. He lets the shirt slide off one shoulder, then lifts a hand to sweep his hair around to the other side, revealing the delicate stretch of skin at the back of his neck.

He flicks his eyes up to the window and catches Henry’s reflection. And - oh, he has his foster father’s attention now.

Alex glances over his bare shoulder for a moment as he unbuckles his belt, then eases it through the loops. The jangling of the buckle is the only sound in the room when the belt pulls free, and it clatters noisily when he reaches his hand out to the side and lets it drop to the carpet. He toes off his shoes and kicks them aside, then reaches down and pulls off his socks, making sure that he keeps his legs long and straight, feeling the stretch of his pants over his ass.

He feels the weight of Henry’s gaze like a tangible caress. Alex’s groin throbs as he starts to understand - he has power here.

He straightens up and unfastens the button at the top of his pants. He risks another look at Henry’s reflection and sees that Henry has put down his whiskey glass and is slipping off his tie. 

Oh, god. 

The suggestion that Henry is dropping his formal façade makes this suddenly, terrifyingly real.

No. _Focus, Alex._ Play the game. Harness that fear and turn it into something useful.

Alex lets his pants slide to the floor and steps out of them. Then he wraps his arms around his body protectively, putting his weight onto one leg to push out his other hip, and making sure to pull his shirt tight to outline the curve of his waist. He allows the tremor into his voice when he murmurs, “Sir?”

“Yes, Alexander?” Henry’s voice comes out softer than before. Warmer. No - hotter.

“I don’t really know what to do. Is… is this okay?” He throws a glance over his shoulder, then looks away quickly, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Could this really be working?

Henry chuckles. “Yes. This is much better. If I didn’t know you, Alexander, I would almost buy this act.”

Fuck. Alex tries not to let Henry see the frustrated crease between his brows. He’s done everything he could think of, and Henry’s _still_ in control. Still messing with him.

But then the back of Henry’s hand touches his cheek again, and strokes down the side of his neck and along the curve of his bared shoulder. A tremble follows in its wake. 

Alex uncrosses his arms and reaches for the collar of his shirt. 

“No, my boy,” Henry murmurs. “Let me do it.”

Alex lets his arms drop to his sides. Henry puts a burning hand on each of his shoulders, grips the fabric, then slides his hands slowly down Alex’s arms, pulling the shirt with him. Oh god, these hands - an intoxicating blend of false gentleness and hidden power. When he reaches Alex’s wrists, Henry stops and wraps his hands around them, Alex’s arms still trapped in the cuffs.

“I _was_ hoping you’d _fight_ me,” Henry murmurs. “Here’s your next lesson. The hunt is part of the allure, Alexander. Your target must think he is the wolf, and he should not feel the trap springing shut until it is too late.”

Fool, Alex thinks, and bites hard on his lip to suppress his smile. He has been drawing his foster father in for almost a year - and his trap is so elegant that, even after tonight, Henry won’t know he’s been snared. This makes him recall the little recorder as well now, humming away nearby, and he remembers that whatever he says needs to sound incriminating for the tape, too.

He lets his anxiety swell up and colour his voice.

“I didn’t want to refuse,” Alex admits. “In case you sent me away.”

“Ah.” Henry tugs on the shirt, pulling it all the way off Alex’s arms. “Desperation is a sign of weakness. You must learn how to _perform_ your refusal in a way that leaves just enough of an opening. Let your target believe that they have convinced you into it.” Henry steps in closer - close enough that Alex feels the heat radiating off him all the way along his back - and puts his hand on Alex’s stomach. “Try it now.”

Alex tries to marshal his intellect again, but the hand touching him so intimately dissolves all of his rational thoughts. 

Henry is waiting for his reaction, so he blurts, “Stop touching me!” For a second he’s not sure if he really means it, or if he’s just playing into the little lesson.

Henry sighs. “ _No._ Alexander, come now - make an effort. Be subtler.”

Alex swallows. Shit. He’s struggling to focus, now that his arousal is winning out against his other emotions. Ah - but maybe he can use that. “It’s just... It’s hard to think straight, sir, when you’re touching me like this.”

“That’s better,” Henry says, then adds in a rougher tone, “Should I take my hand away, Alexander?”

Okay. Henry’s playing a role now, too. It’s easier to imagine that he’s someone else, because then Alex can pretend the stakes are not quite so high. And it’s easier when he remembers _he’s_ meant to be acting, too.

“You _should,_ ” Alex whispers, but he raises his own hand and places it lightly over Henry’s, preventing him from moving it away. He can’t suppress the tremor that runs through him at the contact - his hand on Henry’s, an intimacy he longed for but never quite expected.

“Good. Very good.” Henry steps in even closer, and now Alex feels the tickle of fabric against his naked back. “Are you refusing me?”

“Only because… I’m afraid.” But Alex tries to sound uncertain rather than fearful.

“Oh?” Henry hums the word like the idea of Alex’s fear is intriguing to him. He shivers.

 _You’re acting, Alex. Keep it together._ “You’re so experienced, sir, and I don’t really… I’ve never done this. I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s all right, Alexander. I will show you.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.” 

Henry’s lips touch the back of his neck, making him tremble. “I don’t think there is any risk of that, my boy.”

“No, sir, please,” Alex says, and glances back over his shoulder. “This isn’t right.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Alex murmurs, then steels himself and slides Henry’s hand down his stomach and to the waistband of his underwear. “You’re like a father to me.”

Henry’s fingers dig into his skin. “And what would you know about _that,_ Alexander?” he asks, light and mocking.

Alex lets out a little sigh. “Only that I shouldn’t be feeling _this._ ” He swallows hard and pushes their hands further down, over the fabric, so that Henry’s fingertips nudge against the side of his shaft, already half-hard despite the gallons of adrenaline in his system. 

Alex braces for a swell of passion. He thought the touch of Henry’s hand _here_ would be different to the congressman's - but it leaves him with the same hollow churning feeling in his gut. The same one he had after Francis. Maybe that’s just how intimacy is meant to feel? A little nauseating and uncomfortable? If that’s the case, then Alex can’t figure out why people go so crazy about sex. If he didn’t need - no, _want_ \- to do this--

Henry breaks his train of thought with a chuckle. He pulls his hand away and pats Alex condescendingly on the side of his hip. 

“A little melodramatic, but you have potential, Alexander. Now, get on the bed.”

Henry’s scoffing words shatter the spell Alex has been trying to weave. He cringes with embarrassment and wraps his arms around himself again, suddenly feeling too exposed. Every time he’s thought he’s finally gotten under Henry’s skin, his foster father has ripped away his confidence and certainty. Maybe Alex _has_ bitten off too much with this. He thought he’d worked out all the angles, but maybe Henry really does have the upper hand--

“Are you deaf, boy?”

Alex starts. “Um. Sorry. How--?”

“On your stomach.”

Alex isn’t sure if he’s meant to be performing again, but he doesn’t have the nerve for it either way. He steps quickly over to the bed and climbs onto it, then stretches out on his front and wedges his arms awkwardly under his face. He feels a paradoxical security in that Henry can’t see his expression, and trepidation that he can’t see Henry’s. 

He hears his foster father shedding his clothes. Part of him wants to look, but more of him is glad that he can’t. Maybe it’s better not to see what’s coming.

He feels the mattress shift as Henry sits down beside him. Henry’s hands reach for the elastic at the top of his underwear and tug down, and again he feels that hollow pit in his stomach, writhing and uncertain. But Alex lifts up his hips a little, allowing the underwear to slip over his hips and down his legs. He doesn’t see where Henry discards it.

“Be honest, now, Alexander. Have you done this before?”

Alex expected this question, and he considered his answer carefully. He doesn’t want Henry to have the satisfaction of knowing exactly how significant this moment is - but, he reckons, it will sound even better for the recording if he gives the true answer.

“No, sir,” he says.

“Hmm.” Henry shifts onto the bed behind him, and urges Alex’s legs apart with a firm tap on the inside of his left thigh. Alex obliges, and he feels Henry moving in to kneel between his legs.

Fuck--! 

This is _insane_ \- he’s completely exposed and vulnerable, and even if he wanted to stop he wouldn’t be able to get away if Henry didn’t allow it. His heart starts hammering, and he’d be deluding himself to think it’s all arousal. Why, why the _fuck_ did this seem like such a brilliant and exciting idea? Alex thought he’d prepared himself well enough, but just the feeling of Henry’s thighs forcing his open is making him delirious with fear and anticipation. 

The quiet, reliable voice of self-preservation saves him. _It’s okay_ , it says. _You’ve been through far worse. You’re doing this for a good reason. You’re really the one in charge._

It doesn’t matter that this sounds untrue to his own ears; even if he’s deluding himself about the rest, the reminder that he’s not the victim - that he _chose_ to be here - steadies him. And, of course, the acting helps too. Just because Henry isn’t expecting him to do it anymore doesn’t mean he can’t pull it up like a shield anyway. 

Henry puts his hands on the sides of Alex’s thighs and runs them upward, until he reaches Alex’s hips. Then the hands dig in, and Alex lets out a little gasp of surprise when Henry drags him closer, up the slope of his legs so that Alex’s buttocks presses into his groin.

And - oh?

Considering Henry’s aloof and ridiculing attitude, which he has worn like impenetrable armour, Alex is genuinely surprised to feel that his foster father is already hard. It takes Alex only a second to remember - this is _all_ acting, _all_ games, _even_ Henry’s tone and gestures. 

Maybe Henry has not been as unaffected as he’s pretending? 

That’s significant. 

“Oh, god, sir,” Alex moans, allowing uncertainty into his exclamation, as Henry shifts slightly and his erection nudges against the swell of his backside. 

Then Alex remembers another crucial fact. _Henry_ is the one who invited him here. Henry must desire him - for whatever awful or twisted reason - just as much as Alex wants and needs Henry’s hands on him and his cock inside him. Perhaps he should have been playing harder to get after all. More importantly, perhaps Henry will be reluctant to let him go now that he has him in this position.

Alex is recording this, so it’s a good thing if there are little noises and words that he can twist to make all of this sound worse. Less willing. Just in case.

He feels a sudden flood of confidence and clarity again. He can do this.

So he starts to squirm a little as Henry’s hands wander over him - down his legs, up his spine, along his waist. Alex lets himself enjoy the realisation that he has managed to coerce these hands into touching him - months and months of painstaking work that he can now reap the rewards of. It’s a far more pleasurable sensation than the strange, slightly frightening nudge of the erection behind him.

He can act his way through the worst of it. That gives him power. 

So Alex arches his back, which pushes his ass more firmly against Henry’s groin, and turns his head to one side so that he can look back up at him through the curtain of his hair, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“Wow, sir,” he breathes, “No one has ever touched me like _that._ ”

And - honest to god - the cock pushing against him twitches in response, even though Henry hums a nonchalant and teasing sound. Alex feels a hot, eager flush of power. Is it really this easy?

He tests it again. He purposefully bumps up against Henry’s shaft with the back of his thigh, then gives a little scared whimper and tries to shift away. Henry’s hands come up and grip onto his hips to hold him in place.

“What’s the matter, Alexander?” he asks - and it would be purely mocking if Alex wasn’t listening in to hear the hoarse little catch on the third syllable of his name.

“I’m just afraid, sir,” he says in a confessional tone, making sure he’s loud enough to be caught by the recorder. “You feel so big and hard and I… I’m worried it’s gonna hurt.”

He feels a rumble through Henry’s body in all the places where they are touching. “Oh, I’m afraid it will hurt, Alexander,” Henry says. “It’s your first time, and you’re going to be tight.” And for a second Henry forgets to school his voice - it’s all desire. “But you said that you are a tough, grown-up boy, aren’t you? You said you could handle anything.”

Jesus. Henry is relishing this. _Craving_ it. He’s read and watched enough to know that if you prepare properly, this kind of sex is not really meant to hurt - so that means Henry’s planning to inflict some pain on purpose.

Perhaps that’s for the best, however. If Alex is going to be engaging in encounters like this with other men, he should get used to a little discomfort; thinking back to the hurried fumbling in the library with the congressman, and the quick, rough encounters with Francis, it’s unlikely that many of the occasions will be like this one, where there is privacy and time to do things properly. 

Anyway, it’s just physical pain. He’s certainly experienced worse.

He plays up his hitched breath for the recorder. “I’ll try, sir. I’m-- I’ll do my best.”

One of Henry’s hands drifts lower, to the fold of Alex’s ass. He strokes down to the inside of his thigh and brushes the back of his hand against the sensitive spot behind his scrotum. Oh, that’s good. Alex allows himself a lewd moan, and twists his hips to provide better access.

“I don’t usually countenance it, but I will not be angry if you cry, my boy.”

Alex shudders at that, and the words bring him out of his aroused fog. He’d lost himself enough to forget exactly what this situation would look like to an outside observer - and what it must look like to Henry: a confident, calculating middle-aged man taking advantage of his hesitant teenage ward, coercing him into bed to take his virginity with twisted promises of support and validation. 

Alex knows that _he_ can handle this - but what if Henry had gotten his hands on another kid instead? Someone genuinely afraid and weak? Someone who hasn’t been tempered and shaped by a lifetime of systemic cruelty and neglect? 

What if Henry _has_ done this to someone else--?

He is brought crashing back to the moment by the stroke of Henry’s thumb between his cheeks. 

This is really, finally happening. He doesn’t know where Henry produces the lubricant from - perhaps it was in his pocket, but when he feels a finger prodding at him again, it’s slick and cool. Alex grips the sheets tightly in his fists and cants his hips up.

“I’m ready, sir,” he says, his wavering voice full of doubt.

Henry takes him at his word. The finger pushes in slowly, steadily, until it’s in all the way to the knuckle, then starts to drive it in and out. Alex grunts at the initial discomfort - that’s real enough - but the sensation is _remarkably_ good, much better than his own private attempt. He allows his legs to tighten around Henry’s thighs.

Henry laughs, a little cruelly. “Try to relax, Alexander. This is only the first finger.”

Alex makes a worried mewling sound; Henry _does_ want him to fight. “It feels strange, sir. So full. I don’t know if I can take any more.”

“You can, and you will,” Henry says firmly. He withdraws his finger almost all of the way, then nudges a second one alongside it on the downstroke. 

Alex yelps, but this time it’s more of an act. He feels the stretch and the ache, but it’s _amazing_. 

Henry prods into him relentlessly, keeping a bruising grip on his hip with his free hand. “Remember how this feels, Alexander,” he says, and there’s a lot less control in his voice now. “Remember the discomfort, the uncertainty, the strangeness, because we will be able to use this. You will not be able to play the innocent convincingly forever, but there is a lot that some men would be willing to offer in exchange for thinking they are the first ones to have you.”

Alex allows himself to writhe and whimper on autopilot for a moment, as he thinks - sick fucking bastards. Hypocrites. Creeps. He’s going to take them and all their broken government machinery down.

He’s not nearly stretched enough when Henry adds his third finger, so Alex muffles a groan into his pillow and instinctively tries to shift away - but, actually, there’s something in this relentless, aching assault that is absolutely delicious, just like the rough handling he got from Francis. His cock, which is hanging heavy and eager in the space between his and Henry’s legs, throbs in anticipation.

He’s starting to really get into this - the sensation, and the acting.

“Please, sir,” he groans, “I don’t know if I can take any more. Maybe we should stop.” 

It’s a big risk to say this, but he’s put together all the evidence and he doesn’t think Henry’s going to withdraw so easily.

The fingers do not slow for a second. “You’d give up so soon, Alexander?” 

“I’m just--”

“Afraid?” Henry mocks.

Not any more, Alex thinks. Not of _you._ “Yes,” he gasps.

“I thought you were braver than that.”

“I am, sir,” he says. 

“Then prove it.”

And before Alex can properly brace for it, the warm fingers withdraw and Henry burning-hot cock nudges at him - and with a firm thrust, the cockhead pushes past his rim and breaches him.

It’s overwhelming. Hot and glorious and agony and fullness like nothing he could imagine. Fuck! It feels so wrong and so _fucking_ good.

He keens all of his confused sensations brokenly into the duvet. 

He’s being split open, but it’s the most arousing and magnificent thing he’s ever felt, and he thinks he might die if Henry were to stop now. He’s shaking all over, sweat breaking out on every inch of skin, and all his attention is on the twin fires between his legs - the searing penetration of Henry’s cock and the boiling desperation in his own straining shaft.

Henry growls above him, and Alex realises it’s in response to the way he is squirming and clenching.

Even now, pinned down and overcome, held and taken and breached, he has power here. Alex has spent his whole life honing his mind into a weapon, but he’d never really considered using his body in the same way. Just a glance, a smile, a twist of his hips and he could have powerful people at his feet? Surely it can't be as easy as _that?_

There’s a subtle shift in the way Henry moves and sighs, and Alex realises that Henry wants _this_ \- right now, in the moment - more than Alex does. He feels the tide of control ebbing in his favour. 

“Please!” Alex cries - and he’s asking for more, more, more with his body, but anyone listening to this without the advantage of seeing the way he grinds back or curls his spine wantonly will only hear the pain and pleading in his voice.

“Am I hurting you?” Henry asks, a mess of arousal.

“Yes,” Alex groans, then adds, “Don’t... stop!” 

He slips the little pause in.

Henry keeps driving into him, half pushing in and half pulling Alex back onto him, and after an endless, agonising minute he is fully seated. 

“You feel amazing, my boy,” Henry purrs, running one hand soothingly down Alex’s trembling back. “I’ll give you a moment to adjust.” 

“No, sir,” Alex pleads, trying to squirm his hips.

“No?” Henry says, amused underneath his lust. “Then pass me that pillow.”

Alex reaches it over with shaking fingers and Henry slides it under his hips. Then, without withdrawing his cock, Henry shifts his position so that he is lying over Alex now, covering his thighs and ass and back with his body, pushing him more firmly down into the mattress. At least the pillow keeps Alex’s hips elevated, providing a better angle. 

Alex groans, overwhelmed by this commanding pressure, by the heat and smell of Henry’s skin, by the rush of Henry’s hot breath on his shoulder. He submits immediately. His foster father braces one forearm next to his head and threads his other hand into his hair, which is tangled and damp with sweat.

“Oh, I knew you could take me, my boy,” Henry growls. He pulls back his hips, withdrawing his cock almost all the way, then drives in again, slow but firm. 

_Fuck,_ it’s good. 

Henry does it again, a little faster. Alex moans.

“Enjoying yourself, Alexander?” Henry breathes into the skin of his back.

“Yes,” Alex sighs, trying to suck in air. 

“And now?”

Henry pulls back, shifts his angle a little and then pushes in again. This time, his shaft nudges against a little spot inside him and Alex sees stars.

“God!” he gasps. It’s becoming harder to act now, but maybe he doesn’t need to any more. “Sir, please!”

Henry obliges, and this time the motion is a little faster, a little rougher, which also drives his own cock deliciously into the pillow below him. 

Fuck. This is unlike anything he imagined. He’s not going to last a _minute._

“Oh god, oh fuck,” he moans hoarsely, because now Henry is not pausing any more, but thrusting in and out, slow at first but rapidly building his pace. At every slide his body adjusts a little more, and by the time Henry has worked up to a bruising, ruthless pace, Alex is melting into the bed, gasping and moaning into the duvet.

Henry pulls back on his hair and lifts his head. 

“Let me hear you properly,” he growls, and Alex obliges with a string of moans and sobs and incoherent pleas.

It takes no time for him to feel the boiling crest of his orgasm approaching, despite only having meager pressure on his own cock. But he doesn’t need it, not with his brain and body providing all of this debauched pleasure - the stretch of his ass, the constant pressure on his prostate, the weight and heat of Henry above him, the drag on his hair, the triumphant reminder that this is his foster father, this is _Senator Henry Laurens_ , finally fucking the last vestiges of innocence and weakness out of him--

His orgasm hits before he can prepare himself, and Henry thrusts the choked cry out of him with unrelenting strokes.

A moment later the feeling becomes too much. The little place that was giving him such pleasure is now painfully sensitive, and his spent cock is being jammed roughly into the pillow and the damp sticky spot that he has made.

As much as he does not want to give in, his body is screaming at him.

“Wait, please, stop,” he groans.

Henry growls low, but he stills his thrusts, buried deep. “What is it?”

“I-- I’m sorry, I--”

Henry figures it out almost instantly, and laughs at him. “I suppose you are still too young and inexperienced to restrain yourself properly. You must work on that as well. Lie still.”

Henry pushes back and withdraws from him. The sensation is utterly foreign - relief and deprivation in equal measures. Henry puts one hand on the small of his back, and then Alex hears the familiar, slick sound of a hand sliding along a cock, along with Henry’s restrained huffs and grunts of pleasure. With nothing left to do, Alex relaxes down into the duvet and just listens, memorising the strange sounds of his foster father unravelling himself.

He soon hears the rising notes of pleasure and suspects Henry must be close. He’s not going to be asked to stick around once that happens, so his frightening and amazing ordeal is almost over. If nothing else, Alex has learnt a lot over the course of one evening--

He is completely unprepared for a bruising grip to suddenly drag his thighs apart, and for that hard, scalding shaft to be shoved inside him again. He’s raw, aching, throbbing - and it’s too much. He cries out in alarm and pain, but Henry’s hands have him held firmly and there’s no place to escape. At least it only takes a few agonising thrusts for Henry to finish with a hot spurt and a deep, hoarse groan.

Alex digs his face into the duvet to wipe away the tears that have sprung to his eyes - before Henry can see and use this as fresh ammo against him. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Henry withdraws quickly, and Alex feels a little of the hot semen leaking out of him.

He doesn’t know the etiquette for this. Is he meant to try to hold it in? Just ignore it and make a mess? Get a tissue and try to clean himself up?

Henry answers the question by tossing him his underwear. “Put that on before you make more of a mess,” he chides, but it’s a little fonder now.

Alex slides the underwear on awkwardly and then sits up. He gets dizzy for a second as the blood rushes to his head, and when he gets his bearings again Henry is looking at him with an intensity that makes him feel stripped down to his bones.

“That was quite convincing. Can you do that again?”

Alex nods silently.

“You’d better run along, then.”

He nods again. Henry disappears into the ensuite and Alex quickly slides back into his clothes, feeling much more secure with just the thin layers of fabric covering him. He hesitates in the middle of the room for a moment, but when Henry doesn’t reemerge, Alex carefully pulls on his jacket, confirms the recorder is still safely in the pocket, and calls a quiet, “Good night.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before slipping out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to know what John has been up to while all this was happening? [Check out the deleted scene here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559156/chapters/72644139)


	23. Chapter 23

When he’s safely back on his own floor, Alex pulls the little recorder out of his pocket with trembling hands and stops it. John told him how to upload the sound file to his phone, but he can deal with that tomorrow - or later today, considering that it's already well after 1am. 

Right now, he’s exhausted, nauseated and uncomfortable, and his psyche feels oddly ragged and sensitive - like his body and his soul don’t quite fit together properly anymore. 

_Jesus._ He shouldn’t be getting this emotional about something as stupid as having sex for the first time. And really it’s just that last little bit, where Henry took something without his permission, that is gnawing at him.

It’s _fine._

All things considered, Henry wasn’t that hard on him, and Alex has to admit that he enjoyed a lot of it - the sense of control over his foster father’s desires, the ebb and flow of power between them, the way he could change the mood of the moment with the inflection of his voice or a shift of his body. And he’s accomplished his audacious mission - no matter what happens now, he has something huge over Henry that he could use to get _anything_ out of him. 

It’s not a card he ever hopes to play, because he suspects he can get a lot of the things he needs through subtler and more cooperative means. But just _having_ it is like a safety blanket that soothes his frayed nerves.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realise there’s a person approaching him from the other end of the corridor until--

“Alex?”

His eyes shoot up. It’s John, red-eyed and a little out of breath. Shit. 

Alex can’t do anything to hide his state now, though he manages to slip the recorder quickly back out of sight. At least the lighting is dim here.

“You’re out past curfew,” he says, stupidly, because it’s the only thing he can think of to break the awkward standoff.

John narrows his eyes. “So are you.”

Alex tries to subtly tuck his clothing back into place, but there's little he can really do about it - or about the fact that there’s a cold, sticky patch of John’s dad’s semen in his underwear. 

“You said you wouldn’t tell,” John reminds him, sounding wary but noticeably more relaxed than at dinner. 

“Oh yeah?” Alex counters. He should just shrug and nod, but he’s feeling raw and prickly after everything he’s just been through. “What will you give me to keep my mouth shut?”

John rolls his eyes and swipes open their hotel room door with his keycard. “Why are you such an asshole?”

“Why are _you_ such a coward?”

“Fuck off,” John grumbles as they walk in and close the door; this near to him, Alex can smell the bitter scent of weed on his clothes. John flicks the lights on, then does a double-take when he sees the state Alex is in. His eyes widen. “What exactly have you been up to?”

“None of your fucking business.”

John smirks and shrugs, his expression just a little too knowing for Alex’s liking. John flops down on his bed and plugs his phone in to charge, then watches him out of the corner of his eye as Alex carefully shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around the little recorder that’s still wedged in the pocket.

The silence is just about to become uncomfortably awkward when John says, “Well, guess what?”

Alex is desperate to vanish into the shower, but he stops in the doorway to the bathroom because there’s a note of something bright and eager in John’s voice. After a week of being at odds, the fact that John wants to confide something in him is a welcome change - if only the timing wasn’t so bad. 

Alex pushes down his sigh. “What?” 

“Look, I know it’s not a big deal to _you,_ but I-- I made out with a guy tonight. At the party.”

“Oh!” Is that it? Alex smiles a bit more genuinely at how self-conscious John sounds. “Good for you. Was he hot?”

John shrugs, but he can’t help smiling. “Yeah, I guess.”

Alex grins. “Get any downstairs action?”

John instantly goes bright red. “Um. I-- Uh, a little.”

“Nice.” Alex turns to go into the bathroom. As much as he really is happy for John, after the night he’s just had, he doesn’t want to watch his older foster brother blush as he shares the details of some vanilla make-out session. 

“Taking a shower?” John calls after him.

“Yup.” 

“Hurry up then, okay? I need to, uh, take care of something too.”

Alex pops his head back around the door jamb and raises an eyebrow. “Disgusting, John. I don’t need to know about you jerking off in the shower.”

John groans and buries his face in his hands. “I hate you,” he mumbles around his hands - but he’s using that fond, teasing tone Alex didn’t realise he’s been desperately missing until he hears it again. 

“Nah,” Alex shoots back, “I’m still the best little brother you’ve got.”

He means it as a joke, but the label pierces through him sharply, catching him off guard. He’s been feeling so grown up tonight, after everything with Henry, and the reminder that John is two years older than him and blushing about some at-best-second-base kissing makes Alex feel paradoxically really old and far too young. He wonders for a second whether he isn’t just wilfully doing more harm to himself through this entanglement with Henry - but his psyche is so scarred over by now that surely a few extra cuts aren’t really going to make much difference.

“That’s right,” John says, smiling sweetly. “Which is why you won’t rat me out to--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex says. “Just don’t keep me up with any - noises.”

John throws a pillow at him from his bed and Alex ducks away, laughing. He’s astonished by how much John’s mood has improved after whatever adventures he’s had tonight - as though whatever intimate encounter John had has bolstered him somehow, instead of draining him in the way Alex’s has.

He climbs out of his tainted clothes and showers quickly, scrubbing intently everywhere Henry’s skin touched his and paying special, careful attention to the spaces between his legs. The familiar warmth of the shower is a comfort that just makes the ache in his ass feel more lurid. He towels off, pulls on his pyjamas and slips back into the room, bundling his dirty pants and underwear discreetly into his suitcase. John immediately ducks into the vacated bathroom and locks the door.

Alex climbs under the clean sheets, but they smell the same as the ones on Henry’s bed, so he can’t get settled. He really wishes he had someone to confide in about what happened tonight, even in vague terms - but there’s no way he can talk to John about it, and he doesn’t exactly have a phone full of close friends to text. A little ache starts in his chest at the realisation that he can’t even tell John that he’s lost his virginity, after all the bluffing he’s done about his supposed sexual prowess.

Ugh. Why is he making such a big _deal_ about this?

Feeling warm, cozy and more alone than ever, Alex falls into uneasy, restless sleep.

\-----

John half-wakes in the black of night to a hot body slipping under the covers behind him, pressing up against his back and sliding an arm around his waist.

He’s addled from the dream he’s having - something vague and heated that’s an echo of last night’s encounter with the beautiful boy and his eager hands - so his first instinct is to hum invitingly and push back into the touch. But a second later his brain catches up with him, and he recognises the familiar smell of Alex’s skin and the sharp press of his cheek against his shoulder.

Still foggy and confused, he now tries to shift away - because no, no, a deeper part of him knows this is wrong. The erotic texture of his dreams is incongruous with the scalding, almost feverish skin of the boy - the _brother_ \- who’s touching him. Staying close would mean crossing all the lines that he’s reluctantly drawn.

But Alex tightens his hold and doesn’t let him move away. 

“Go back to sleep,” Alex murmurs into the skin of John’s back, nuzzling in closer.

And sleep _is_ dragging him down, so he takes this as permission and sinks quickly back into his dream - but now he’s too hot under the covers, and his dream is coloured with discomfort and confusion as he tries to figure out exactly why his chest feels so tight all of a sudden.

\-----

John stirs again just as the room is lightening. He’s expecting to wake up to a mouthful of Alex’s flyaway hair, or a knee jutting into his thigh, or most of the covers stolen and tucked around his foster brother's slight body. But he’s alone. 

Did he dream Alex climbing into bed with him? If he did… well, he’s had disturbing, off-colour dreams before - that doesn’t mean anything is _wrong_ with him. But he’s pretty sure he didn’t dream it, even though Alex is clearly bundled up in his own bed again now. He realises with a pang that Alex must have come to him to be soothed - a nightmare, perhaps - but thought he wouldn’t be welcome in the morning.

That’s ridiculous. Even at his angriest, John knows he wouldn’t be able to refuse Alex’s wordless pleas for comfort.

Ugh - he’s been such an idiot, so consumed by his own selfish cycle of problems that he’s ignored Alex’s wellbeing in the process. It’s clear that something has been going on with his foster brother recently, and he doesn’t think he can attribute all of Alex’s weird mood over the last week just to their little falling out. If John hadn’t been behaving like a stubborn little kid, he might have been able to help - this sulkiness is not the kind of big-brother behaviour he prides himself on, and he hopes that whatever damage he’s done isn’t irreversible.

He determines to stop being childish and start mending things with Alex when he wakes up. That magnanimous decision comes easily to him this morning - perhaps it’s because he finally _does_ feel a little less like a child. 

John smiles to himself as he calls up the memories from last night. His first kiss - the first one that counts, anyway. The stranger’s dark eyes, his beautiful smile; the way the guy had sidled up to him while they were dancing and made him blush when he’d whispered _‘hey, gorgeous’_ in his ear. How John’s heart had raced when he’d tentatively reached for the guy’s shoulder - and how it had leapt in excitement when a hand had grazed his waist in return.

He lets out a low sigh, then slides a hand along his stomach and down past the waistband of his pyjamas. He strokes himself slowly as he recalls the first kiss - lips grazing, delicate and cautious - and then the second one - a hungrier and more enthusiastic press. The hot look that passed between them when John had opened his eyes. The third kiss, when John’s lips had yielded to the hot prodding tongue. Digging his fingers into the eager body that was pressing into his. An encouraging moan right by his ear. The nudge of something firm against his hip--

The sudden, sharp sound of his alarm cuts John’s fantasy short. He reaches a hand out from underneath the covers to snooze it, then pulls the duvet back over his head, cringing at the interruption.

Alex groans and shifts. His muffled voice croaks out from under his duvet. “Henry’s gonna be mad if we’re late.”

John squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to think about his _dad_ right now. “Fuck him,” he mumbles bitterly from under his own covers. 

“What time is it?” He hears Alex shifting on his bed, then dropping back down heavily. “Jesus, wasn’t this supposed to be, like, a holiday?”

Alex has that little standoffish note in his voice that John recognises from their very first days living together - where Alex had still had all his defences up around him. Clearly Alex is still not sure where they stand - but John finds that he just can’t muster his previous annoyance anymore; it must have dissipated overnight. Are a few heated kisses from a stranger all it takes to mollify him?

“Breakfast at nine. You know the rule,” he grumbles. His erection has subsided a little, so he sighs heavily and pulls the duvet down past his face, his curls frizzing out in a staticky halo. 

Alex sits up and rubs his eyes tiredly, rolling his shoulders and then glancing over at him. There’s wariness hidden in all the little nooks of his expression.

“Jesus, do you still have those eye drops? He’s gonna know you’ve been high the second he sees you.” 

“I dunno. Don’t care.” John means it, too. It’s not like his father is expecting model behaviour anymore, and John played the good son long enough on this trip to have earned a reprieve.

Alex gets out of bed with a wince. “Let’s go, come on. I’m hungry.” 

John pushes himself up and surreptitiously folds his hands in his lap, going a little red and hoping Alex isn’t awake enough to notice the state he’s in. “Uh. You can go shower first if you want.” 

Alex casts a sharp, amused glance back at him. “This again? Maybe I should take my time on purpose then.”

“Yeah, whatever, and just maybe I’ll go back to the very pleasant dream I was having.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Ah, about the mystery boy from last night? You still haven’t filled me in.”

John can’t help the pleased little smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t the rule ‘don’t kiss and tell’?”

“Come on!” Alex pouts. “Look at you - you’re _dying_ to tell me all about it!”

John squeezes his eyes shut and a little pink flush appears on his cheeks. As embarrassing as it is, this the most casually they’ve spoken for over a week, and he has been desperate to share this encounter with the only person he can talk openly to about this stuff. He smiles. “Um, yeah… kinda.”

Alex begins rifling through his suitcase for clothes, shooting him a knowing look. “Did you know him before last night?”

“No.” John pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. There was something thrilling about being anonymous - and therefore more himself than he remembers being for a long time. And it was nice not to be son-of-Senator-Laurens for a whole evening. “And, uh… I didn’t really catch his name.” 

A smile spreads across Alex’s face. “That’s the best kind of spontaneous making out! Did you make the first move?”

“Nah, it was all him. Everyone was drinking or smoking - oh, uh, don’t tell dad about that either - and then we were dancing and, well, we just sort of ended up next to each other.”

Alex nods along, then turns back to his luggage when he asks, “Was he older than you?”

“Uh, no idea. A little? I think he said he was in college.”

Alex grins as he turns back to face him. “Sweet. And you said there was some _other_ action apart from the smooching...”

John squirms, trying to push down the memory of their wandering hands and the tight press of their bodies before he starts _reacting_ again. “Yeah… a bit.”

“Okay, now we’re talking. You made me share that stuff before, so - spill. What was it like?”

John flops back and puts his hands over his eyes. “Um. It was _good_. Really good. Nothing crazy happened, but he had his hands on-- Um. You can guess.” He cuts off, too embarrassed to spell out the details of those fingers gripping his ass and grazing along the front of his pants. He can still remember all the kissing and tentative fondling with Martha, but this was on a whole other level. Touching Martha had felt awkward and stilted. Acted. This was real. He can’t quite put the distinction into words.

“Well, I’m happy for you.”Alex is grabbing a pair of jeans from his suitcase, and while his back is turned, John can't quite see the expression on his face. He might be imagining it, but Alex sounds just a little too cheery for his words to be genuine. “Do you think you’ll run into him again, or is that not really the plan?”

John laughs nervously. “I’d probably die of embarrassment if I did. But,” and he peeks out from under his hands, “I don’t think I’m the only one who, ah, had a good night?” He feels obliged to ask, even though hearing about it is only going to sting. But it’s only fair, and he’s willing to take the hit to keep this conversation going.

But Alex shrugs, and his smile is at once smug and uninviting of further questioning. “Yeah. Pretty good.”

The evasive tone is strange, considering how eager Alex usually is to boast about his conquests. 

Then John realises - Alex is still being cautious about bridging this weird distance between them; he hasn’t even come close enough to touch yet. As much as he doesn’t want to hear any more details, John needs to show Alex that they can still trust each other, and he wants to have Alex’s confidence back even if that means hearing things that will hurt. 

Alex’s dark moods seem to melt in the face of physical contact, so - at a loss for a better idea - he shrugs nonchalantly, stands up from his bed, then quickly pulls his duvet up with him and throws it over Alex’s head. 

“No way, not good enough!”

He grabs Alex around the chest, and Alex yelps and kicks, half laughing and half sputtering. His voice is muffled under the duvet. “John! Come on, if you want to get the juicy stuff out of me this isn’t making me wanna share!”

John laughs and picks him up, then dumps Alex onto his bed and flops down beside him. “I know the look on your face when you’re trying to get out of a conversation.”

Alex untangles himself from the duvet and shakes his hair from his flushed face. He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you do, do you? Well, I personally think your sex life is getting juicy enough that you don’t need to hear all the sordid details about mine.”

“Ha. ‘Sex life’ is a stretch for some drunken grinding at a party. At least tell me if it was a guy or a girl?”

Alex hesitates, eyes darting down to his fidgeting hands. “Uh, a guy.”

John takes in Alex’s expression for a moment, his mouth twisted in a grin that seems more pained than self-satisfied. He thinks back to the warm, searching arms wrapping around him last night, the bump of a chin nestling into the crook of his shoulder. Alex isn’t the inexperienced, flustered virgin here, so why does he seem so guarded and wrong-footed?

For a moment he wonders if something _bad_ happened last night. But Alex had looked okay when they had returned to their room - a little ruffled, sure, but certainly not in any physical or emotional distress - and John is pretty sure that even Alex wouldn’t be able to mask a genuine trauma like that. 

Maybe he just needs to push a little more. Demonstrate that they’re still friends, still safe and close, that he’s not embarrassed to talk about it. 

“Okay? And where did you find this random guy then?”

Alex shrugs nonchalantly and lies back on John’s bed, playing with the ends of his hair where it splays out on the pillow and not making eye contact with him. “Well, you were out and Henry was hardly gonna bother me after we got back here, so I thought it might be fun to see what D.C. nightlife was like.”

John looks down at him with a wry smile, then shakes his head. “Um. Sorry about that, by the way. For just going off without you. That was a dick move.”

Alex waves his hand dismissively. “I’m not complaining. I got laid. Just, next time, it would be nice to be invited. I could come watch all the cute preppy college boys _fawn_ over you.”

John bites his lip. Yeah, he’d gotten enough appraising looks that even _he_ had noticed. Maybe he’s an incurable romantic - or just incurably in love already - but it wouldn’t matter if every guy at a party was staring at John, because if Alex were there, he wouldn’t notice any of them. 

He can’t exactly confess _that,_ so he hedges and says, “Oh, I’m pretty sure they’d all have their eyes on you.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Well, then I’d choose the hottest one and send the rest your way. But, seriously though, it’s not like you had any trouble getting a hot guy last night.”

“I guess.” John smiles to himself. “And don’t get me wrong, it was very - uh, pleasant. But I’m not sure the whole random hook-up thing is really for me.”

Alex looks determinedly at the ceiling. “Well, we’ll be moving up here soon. Plenty of time to meet some cute art student and take him on romantic dates. Do it the old-fashioned way.”

John sighs and looks away as well. He doesn’t want to think about dates when the boy he’d most like to take on one is lying right here, a few feet away. “Yeah. It’s going to be so different to the way things are back home.”

“No point dwelling on the past, then.” 

Alex says this with such a sudden, bitter note that John sits up to meet Alex’s eye, raising an eyebrow. He can’t trace the origin of it. Alex knows even better than he does that their traumatic histories are always lurking just under the surface.

“Because it’s just that easy to put the past away?” he challenges.

Alex scrunches his eyes. “I never said that.” The distance, defensive note intensifies.

Something is clearly wrong, but with Alex pulling all his walls up, there’s no way for John to untangle what it is. He feels his chest tightening in frustration. He can’t help his foster brother if this unspoken rift remains between them. 

It’s time to be the bigger person.

He reaches around for Alex’s shoulder and pulls him onto his side, then turns so that they’re lying face to face. He keeps his hand firmly in place, squeezing a little and running his thumb soothingly along the side of Alex’s arm.

“Hey,” he says more softly. “I’m sorry.”

Alex shrugs and doesn’t quite meet his eye, but it’s clear that he understands exactly what John means. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” John gives him an embarrassed smile. “I was being an asshole. I shouldn’t have avoided you and I shouldn’t have said all that mean stuff.”

Alex glances up at him, then shifts forward so that he can press his face into John’s chest. John reaches his arm around his shoulders to tug him closer.

“Okay. Thanks,” Alex murmurs. “You wanna tell me what I did to piss you off?”

“Nothing.” John leans in to kiss the top of Alex’s head. “That’s the stupidest part. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh.” Alex is quiet for a moment. “But then why--”

“Doesn’t matter,” John says quickly. His petty thought processes are too humiliating to lay out. That he’d found a way to blame Alex for Frankie running out of patience with him, and for his father’s ice-cold mind games, even if Alex did play some small part in all of it. “My own shit. Nothing for you to worry about. Just, you know… my dad and - uh, all of that.”

“Oh,” Alex says again, this time sounding like he’s understood the subtext of what John’s saying.

John feels Alex’s shoulders tighten under his hand, so he slides his arm further around and rubs at the muscles soothingly. The Alex he’s holding suddenly feels fragile. He murmurs, “I don’t blame you.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

“I _don’t._ I get it,” he says. “I get why you want to win him over - the career stuff and the security and all that. And maybe I was being too paranoid. After all, you’re smarter and tougher than me. You’ve been through stuff I can’t even imagine. You know what you’re doing, and I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Alex nods into his chest, but it feels more like he’s trying to absorb this affirmation than to signal his agreement. 

“It’s just… I don’t want you to get hurt,” John whispers. He feels a little selfish saying it, because he thinks of how miserable his life would be if Alex just disappeared one day, like all the other foster kids who had fallen out of Henry’s favour. He’d missed some of them, but he’s pretty sure his heart would shatter if he lost Alex. It’s too painful to even imagine.

“Your heart’s racing,” Alex murmurs.

John hums, and tries to calm himself by breathing in the smell of Alex’s hair - but for once that just makes it worse.

Alex shifts away just a little and looks up to meet his eyes. His expression softens as he puts his hand over the spot where John’s heart is hammering painfully in his chest - but that tender gesture just redoubles the ache there. “Are you… I dunno, nervous about college? Is that it? I mean, I’m super excited and all that but I guess it’s a bit scary too.”

“Oh?” John’s mouth quirks up at Alex’s obvious and inelegant change of topic. “Uh, yeah - sure.”

Alex pulls his hand away, turns onto his back and looks up at the ceiling again. He swallows thickly. “Just think of all the crazy things we’ll get up to, huh?” he says, his light tone sounding painfully false. “Meeting new people, trying new things. There are gonna be tons of people almost as cool as me, if you can believe it.”

“Right,” John scoffs, letting out a slightly rough laugh. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself. Doubt it, though.”

Alex glances at him with a fond, slightly sad look. “Until then, you’ve just got your kid brother to annoy you. Guess we’ll have to make it work, huh?”

John chuckles and tries to lighten the mood. “Well, right up until my father murders my kid brother for showing up to breakfast in jeans.”

Alex sits up quickly, glances at the jeans that he’s dropped beside him and frowns tightly. “Shit, you’re right.” He gets to his feet and walks back over to his suitcase, shoulders hunched up again. “Khakis then? All of this dress-up is such bullshit.”

John suppresses his sigh. He’s not sure what he said or did that has put Alex on the defensive again.

“Just wear the pants you had on for dinner yesterday,” he suggests as he reaches to check his phone.

Alex runs a hand through his hair and looks down at his suitcase. “Shit, I can’t, I got pasta sauce on them. And they’re all crumpled anyway. Khakis it is.”

It’s such a transparent lie that John laughs as he gets up from his bed. “Crumpled?” he teases. “From your, ah, excursion last night? Classy.” He walks through to the bathroom - making a concerted and completely unsuccessful effort not to picture some stranger sliding his hands along Alex’s hips to tug off his pants - and splashes water on his face to mask his flush.

Alex grumbles something as he starts rummaging in his case. “As long as you don’t wear what _you_ wore last night. You stank of weed.”

John sputters into the water. “Yeah, that’s why I packed a second bag.”

“Okay, smart.” Then Alex’s tone turns a little too casual. “What are our plans for today?”

John remembers the awkward fight with his dad at dinner and also feigns nonchalance as he walks back to his own suitcase to find something to wear. He hadn’t _really_ made any concrete plans to see friends, and now that they’re back on slightly steadier ground he’d rather spend the time with Alex anyway. 

“After breakfast, we’ll have a few hours free to--” He glances up, glimpses that Alex is topless, and looks back down at his luggage with a fresh blush. “To, uh - well, whatever you want. Museum or something?”

Alex grins. “Sure. Do you know any good spots? Maybe we could do something all the Georgetown kids do? Get a feel for the student vibe or something. Or the Smithsonian?” He straightens up. “Do you think this blue one is okay?” He holds up a shirt with a slight frown.

John looks up, a little more prepared this time, and smiles approvingly. “Yeah, that’s a good colour on you. But, I was thinking - let’s forget all that and hang out, just the two of us. It’s been too long. We can stop worrying about the past _and_ the future for one day.”

Alex’s face splits into a broad smile - the first really genuine one all morning, John notes, because Alex can’t smother or reshape it in time. “Sure. Should we order room service and watch a movie or something?” He slips on the button down.

“Better idea.” John raises his eyebrows. “Wanna see the secret tunnels that run under the city?”

Alex stops, his shirt half buttoned. “You’re kidding. Secret tunnels?”

“Ha, okay, maybe _secret_ is overselling it a little, but it’s pretty cool. There’s a whole network of tunnels between all the government buildings, and if you have a pass you can go wild down there.” He digs his access card out of his satchel and holds it up to demonstrate. The photo is a few years old now, but it still works just fine. “Spent a lot of time exploring as a kid when dad got stuck with babysitting duties.”

Alex laughs. “I don’t know what sounds crazier to me - you getting the free time to go wandering around secret labyrinths or Henry babysitting. But that sounds cool as shit.”

John shrugs. “Mom was sick a lot and dad was not going to waste his time actively parenting me once I was old enough to stay out of trouble on my own. Sometimes he made me type up notes and shit for him, but I think he realised I preferred running around down there instead. I was a _model_ child, I’ll have you know.” 

Alex feigns surprise. “Exploiting a family connection to go wandering around restricted federal property? Model-child behaviour if I ever heard it.”

“See, this is your mistake, Alex,” John says in a mock-patronising tone. “You try to stand out too much. But if you’re inconspicuous and you don’t cause trouble, nobody cares what you do.”

Alex steps into his pants and gives John a half-hearted finger. “Never thought you’d be giving me lessons on stealth, mister hide-the-weed-under-the-bed.”

John throws a pillow at his head. “He hasn’t found any of the other stashes, idiot.”

Alex doesn’t bother to duck the half-hearted throw. “As long as you keep it up with the eye drops, I guess. Do you have any left, by the way? We should smoke it together sometime.” He fastens his pants.

“Sure.” John gives him a skeptical look. “Weren’t you going to take a shower first?”

Alex looks down at himself and curses. “Oh, well, I showered last night. You can go ahead, if you wanna get rid of that morning wood or whatever.” He smirks to himself.

“I hate you so much,” John groans, but he gets up and crosses to the bathroom. He stares into the mirror. “Can a shower wash away how shit I look this morning?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “You look beautiful. Just get some coffee in you and you’ll be fine.”

John laughs. “Yeah, yeah.” He stares at his own reflection for a moment, wishing idly that coffee was all it took to actually make everything _fine._ “Oh, you don’t need to wait for me. You can head down if you wanna have one of your boring conversations with my dad about the stock market or whatever.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Alex pause mid-way through brushing his hair, and wince. “Oh, uh, that’s fine. I can wait, really. I’ll just… hang around here.”

“Whatever. It’s just that the less of it I have to sit through, the better.”

Alex is sliding his feet into his shoes with an intent, furrowed expression. “Fine. Either way, you better hurry up, Henry will be down soon.”

John glances up at Alex just as Alex looks through the door at him, and for the second that their eyes meet, John sees something _entirely_ raw there. A version of Alex that John has never seen before beneath all the other layers - real and earnest and wounded. It’s gone in an instant, but the sight hitches his breath and flushes him with a potent mix of sadness and yearning. He turns away as he blushes, hoping his face is out of sight. 

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As he reaches out to close the bathroom door, Alex blows him a kiss. “Why don’t you think about your mystery man from last night, hm?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business, asshole?” John calls through the door. He hopes his voice doesn’t betray how tight his throat has suddenly gotten. It’s not _those_ eyes and hands that are on his mind anymore.

“Never!” Alex shouts back, but a moment later John hears the hotel room door opening and then closing behind him.

He steps into the shower, even more muddled than when he woke up. He’s relieved to be making up with Alex, but something must have happened in the last week that has put his foster brother off kilter. He missed it, and he’s kicking himself.

After all this adrenaline, he knows he’s not going to be settled if he doesn’t give himself a little relief. So, although he feels a little ashamed of himself, John slips a hand between his legs and conjures up that little glimpse he caught - Alex, utterly vulnerable, stripped not of his clothing but of his armour. He digs into his memory for other moments like that, times when Alex came to him seeking his strength, his support, his touch…

 _Thoughts are okay,_ John reminds himself as he embellishes the memories, imagining Alex begging not just to be held but to be _taken,_ to be undone, to be protected and pressed down securely beneath him while John rains down assurances in between his caresses. 

_You’re beautiful,_ he praises the Alex in his mind, as he speeds up his hand. 

_Brilliant._

_Broken._

_But I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you. And I’ll always love you, no matter what._


	24. Chapter 24

Alex is heading to his room with a cup of coffee and some toast, lost in thought, when he hears a muffled groan from John’s room. He eases the door open and finds his foster brother sitting on the floor at the epicentre of an explosion of paper, defeat written in every slouched line of his posture.

“What are you doing?” Alex asks.

John looks up at him through wide, despairing eyes. “Alex - please, I need you to help me with this.”

Alex steps into the room and glances down at the papers, recognising course handbooks and syllabi. He laughs lightly at the contrast of the mundane paperwork with John’s abject misery. “Wait, you’re only picking your course load now?”

John sighs deeply. “Don’t - dad’s already on my case. But I’ve been too busy!”

It’s a reasonable excuse. When they got back from D.C., they’d dived straight into studying for finals and finishing up all their coursework for school - and John, of course, hadn’t already been weeks ahead of his deliverables like Alex was. On top of that, John’s had all his normal extracurriculars, and he’s been spending endless, gruelling hours in his father’s office planning their move to D.C. in the fall. Over-planning, Alex suspects - but then again, what does he know about relocating intentionally? Every move he’s ever made has been forced on him.

It’s the hours spent with Henry that seem to drain his foster brother the most, and the knowledge that John is sticking them out just to make sure everything about the move is as seamless as possible twists the little knife of guilt deeper in his chest. But he hasn’t been invited to take part, and for once he’s happy to keep Henry at a distance, leaving John to take the brunt.

Here, at least, he can help. He puts his mug and plate on John’s desk and drops down onto the floor next to him. 

“Okay. What do you have so far?”

John lets out a pained groan, looking despairingly over the sea of paper. “Not much. Here’s the list of stuff I have to take for the pol-sci major, and here’s the stuff I have to take because dad says so.” He hands Alex a piece of paper with course names scrawled in what is unmistakably Henry’s handwriting. “I’ve tried to map it out here but… Ugh, I don’t _get_ it — I keep getting stuck on the levels and the credit totals.”

“Yeah, it can be confusing at first,” Alex demurs, remembering the long evenings he’s spent plotting out his own curriculum so that he can fit all the courses he needs into three years instead of four. He picks up John’s laptop, takes one look at the wreck of an Excel spreadsheet he’s made, and says, “May I?”

“Go wild,” John says, stretching out his crossed legs and leaning back against the side of his bed with a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, see, you’ve got the credit hours wrong here for this one,” Alex says absently, deleting and fixing the entry from memory, “And you need to take this course before you take the follow-up...” 

His mind zones in right away, and he barely registers John smiling at him with a mix of fondness and bemusement as he starts pulling the document apart. Ten or so minutes later, he hands the laptop over again. John puts down his phone and takes a look.

“Oh,” he says. “Wow. You made it work.”

“Well, it’s a bit easier since you’ve got the full four years. I put in all the required courses and one or two that I think are gonna be useful, but you’re still a little short on total credits.”

“Oh,” John twists his mouth to one side, looking apprehensive. “Now what?”

“Well,” Alex grins encouragingly, “You can choose some stuff you _actually_ want to take.”

John’s eyes shoot up to look at him, his expression blank with confusion. “What?”

Alex laughs awkwardly. This doesn’t seem like a difficult concept to understand. “I mean, that’s what college is meant to be about, right? Exploring your interests?”

“Yes, but--” John founders, suddenly looking pale and anxious. “I don’t know-- I can take _anything_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Alex says insistently. “You just need to make sure the course fits your lecture timetable and that you’ve got at least fifteen credits per semester. But you’ve got everything for your major, so you just really need the raw credits.”

John’s eyes inch open even wider, and for a moment Alex thinks he might be on the verge of a panic attack. He reaches out and puts a steadying hand on his knee. 

John shakes his head. “No, but-- What about dad? He hasn’t given me instructions for this,” John says quietly.

Alex rolls his eyes and shifts so he’s sitting next to John, shoulders pressed together so that they can both look at the screen. He can feel the tight, anxious tremble in John’s body all down his side. “Look. He’s not dumb - he knows that if you take courses you’re actually interested in, that’s going to keep your GPA up. I think as long as it’s not, like, gender studies or something, he’s not going to care.”

John swallows heavily. His voice comes out strained. “I’ve… never even thought about it. About what _I’d_ choose.”

“Here.” Alex leans in a little closer and slides one arm around John’s back as he reaches his other hand to the laptop, to pull up the university prospectus. He feels John sink into the touch, though his pulse is still racing madly. “Just take a look. Maybe something will jump out at you.”

“Oh, okay. Will you--?”

“Yeah, just make a list of stuff that looks cool and I’ll let you know if it fits.”

“Thanks,” John says with a small nod, staring at the cover page of the prospectus nervously but not making any moves to start scrolling.

“You want a bit of privacy?”

“Um. Yeah, thanks.”

Alex extricates his arm and stands up, ruffling John’s hair. “Take your time. I’m just next door.”

Alex retrieves his dishes and heads over to his room, holding back his half-amused, half-frustrated exhalation until he’s out of earshot. 

It’s a little sad that John’s allowed Henry to so completely dictate the critical decisions in his life that he can’t even pick a few electives without feeling like he’s stepping on hot coals. Alex can’t imagine Henry wasting a minute of his invaluable time worrying about whether John is taking some random finance or language courses.

But that sets him back on his previous train of thought - what is he going to do next about Henry? 

Alex has been glad for the distractions over the last few weeks, because they have allowed a bit of time to pass between that raw, emotional night in the hotel and executing the next strategic step of his plan to entangle himself with his foster father. The distance has helped to cushion the silly emotionality of their encounter, and now he has a bit more perspective - not to mention that his ambition is finally sparking up again nicely.

Only problem is, he doesn’t know _what_ that next step is. Somehow, achieving his goal of fucking his foster father eclipsed all thought of where he’d go from there. 

He sits down at his desk and fires up his laptop, sipping idly at his coffee while he waits for it to start up. It’s old, and it’s getting seriously slow - but it still works fine once it eventually gets going, and Alex neither wants to waste his precious savings on a new one, nor ask for one to be bought for him. He’ll make do.

He oscillates between being grateful for their physical encounter - he draws new lessons from it almost every day - and kicking himself for playing that card too early. It’s only now, with hindsight, that he really appreciates that _he_ was just as much a conquest for Henry as vice versa. He should have let himself be pursued longer, preserved the allure of his innocence - because now he can’t go back. Alex is starting to realise the truth of what Henry has told him - that there is far more pleasure in the hunt than in the final conquest. 

Perhaps that’s why he’s been feeling strangely muted and lethargic too.

It’s time for a new hunt. A new goal. And he needs to come up with creative ways to stay useful - and interesting - to Henry. 

Getting into bed with his foster father again - or at least, any time soon - doesn’t feel like a feasible long-term strategy for keeping Henry’s attention. After all, how many times can he let his foster father do that to him before Henry gets bored of the naive act? 

Henry has himself suggested putting Alex to use in the way they practiced at the hotel, and Alex is happy to do if that’s going to help Henry - but it’s not a good plan over the long term either. Alex has a lot more to offer than passive use of his body, and he’s not going to be able to prove his talents on the receiving end of some closeted old republican’s cock. 

What he wants is to be given the access and opportunity to put his sharp mind to work - but there aren’t any obvious avenues for that, either. For one, his options are limited by the fact that he’s going to be studying for a while - three years to finish his undergrad, then another two of law school - so it will be some time before he can take on a formal position with Henry and start climbing that ladder. He’s pretty sure he can get summer internships with him, but that isn’t going to be enough to cement his position at Henry’s right hand.

He grimaces with frustration.

The recording, at least, is safe. As soon as they’d gotten home, he’d downloaded the file off the card and, after skipping quickly through it to make sure the audio was captured correctly while trying not to listen to any of the actual content, he’d uploaded it to a few password-protected cloud storage services. For good measure, he stole the SD card too, and bought a replacement that he slipped into the device before handing it back to John. All of that is probably overkill, but since his future - and, somehow, his nerve - is now tied up with that audio file, he thinks the precautions are worth it.

He feels a sudden but not uncommon flash of paranoia, so he logs into his dropbox and checks that the file is still there. It is, of course. It’s fine. 

He lets out a long, thoughtful sigh and drums his fingers on the plastic laptop casing.

The next step _still_ eludes him. 

The one thing he’s absolutely certain of is that he needs to keep John on his side - and at odds with Henry. There’s no one in the world who knows Henry as well as John does, so those insights will be useful, and John is an important piece on Henry’s board, reluctant though he may be to play any part in his father’s grand strategy. If he can keep John occupied, his eyes off the main action and happily forging a new path for himself that takes him further away from Henry’s favour, that will let Alex slip neatly into the vacated spot. That’s been the plan all along, after all - and he’s glad he can see ways of achieving that now that don’t involve completely destroying John along the way.

The current cold war between father and son works in Alex’s favour. Since neither John nor Henry seem particularly keen to engage with one another, that puts Alex in the powerful position as their go-between. This will let him steer the narrative from opposite sides and get what he needs from both of them while carefully, delicately maintaining the friction in their relationship. If John and Henry ever genuinely reconciled, that would be a disaster for Alex’s prospects.

He stares at his blank computer screen, chewing at his lip, stuck at this crossroad of indecision.

Maybe what he needs is to work backwards from his final goal. In the end, what he really wants is power, and that will come from the status and influence he gathers up as he ascends through the political ranks. That’s five years away. He can’t wait that long to get started.

But power has another important source that he’s been neglecting - money. Living at the Laurenses has meant not having to work a shitty service job to pay for the necessities, and he’s gotten a little too comfortable relying on Henry’s ability - and, for now, willingness - to foot all of his bills.

He opens a new tab in his browser and quickly logs in to check his secret bank account. The total there hasn’t grown by much over the last year and a half. It’s still enough for him to live well for a few months, and to scrape by for double that, but it’s a laughable sum if he wanted to do anything truly audacious or impactful with it. He needs to earn more, to strengthen and reinforce his safety net, if he wants to wholeheartedly play Henry’s risky game of manipulation and intrigue.

But he’s not sure how he’s going to fit in a tedious minimum-wage job around his accelerated curriculum, all the student groups he wants to join, keeping an eye on John, occasionally going to a party _and_ pursuing these illicit favours for Henry--

When the answer strikes him, it’s so blindingly obvious that he throws his head back and smirks at the ceiling.

And that also gives him a good idea about the next step he can take with his foster father.

\-----

Later that evening, John slips down the hall into Alex’s room and shuts the door quickly behind him, feeling like a man on a covert spy mission. Well, if he can drink, smoke weed and kiss boys under his father’s nose, then he can handle picking out a few courses.

“I think I figured it out,” he says intently as Alex pulls his legs up and makes space for him to sit beside him on the bed. “Here.”

He sucks in a nervous lungful of air as Alex scans the screen, then settles between Alex’s legs and the wall, drumming a nervous rhythm against Alex’s knee.

John thought that choosing courses he’d like would be challenging, since he’s worked all his life to suppress everything that makes him ‘unambitious and weak’ according to his father, but that he has come to realise really means unique and interesting. But as soon as he calms himself down enough that he can absorb what’s on the screen again and starts scrolling through the list of courses on offer, the answers are obvious.

Despite what Alex said, he’s not convinced in the slightest that his dad will gloss over these choices. But he’s thought of a different, subtler way to get what he wants. 

He observes Alex’s surprise as he scrolls through the eclectic mix of courses he’s jammed into the gaps in his curriculum, ones on art history, photography and cybersecurity. Alex’s eyebrows seem to rise of their own accord. “You sure about this?”

“You said I should go for stuff I’m interested in,” John challenges.

“Yeah - oh, and don’t get me wrong, this is fucking awesome. Just--”

“Might be a step too far for dad?” John says with a knowing smirk.

Alex smiles wryly. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Scroll down.”

“Huh?” 

John nods insistently and Alex looks further down the screen, where John has mapped out a different set of filler courses - some bland stuff in finance and economics. 

Alex narrows his eyebrows in confusion, leaning in a little closer to the screen. “What are you up to, John?”

“So… I read up the rules, and get this - you can change your curriculum after you start. You need to do it in the first few weeks, but I just need to wait until dad pays the fees, then I can switch from this to the ones I want. The price comes out the same, and since my academic record is private, he won’t know I’ve done it.”

“That’s… suspiciously sneaky of you, Laurens.”

He can’t tell if Alex sounds impressed or worried, so he just shrugs. “Hiding stuff from dad is pretty much par for course.”

“And when he finds out?” Alex asks cautiously.

Alex doesn’t say _if,_ and John agrees that it’s only a matter of time. “It should be too late to change back by then.”

“He’s gonna be furious.” 

But John just shrugs again. He can’t bring himself to care, all of a sudden. “I’ll deal with him.”

He watches Alex’s frown deepen and turn thoughtful. “Or, I guess… Maybe I could talk to him? For you?”

“No,” John says firmly, right away. The last thing he wants is Alex getting on his dad’s bad side for him. “I can fight my own battles.”

Alex reaches a hand out and wraps it around his upper arm. “I’m serious. If you go behind his back like this he might - shit, I can’t even imagine.”

“And _I’m_ serious, too. Keep out of it. It’s none of your business.” He sees Alex chewing nervously on his lip. “I thought you’d be happy.”

Alex shakes his head, his expression softening. “It’s— no, it’s amazing. Computer stuff? Art? He’ll _have_ to see reason when you get top marks in all of these.”

John gives a rough little laugh and rests his chin on Alex’s shoulder as he begins to go through the list, checking the compatibility of the various courses in John’s timetable.

“Well, these courses are for me. It would be a miracle if he came around even a little, but I can handle it. What’s he going to do? Ground me?”

Alex shrugs, his mouth twitching into a conspiratorial smile. “Fair enough.”

John laughs. “What?”

His foster brother tilts his head, his fingers pausing over the keyboard for a moment as he turns to glance at John with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Oh, well… it’s just, I like this side of you. And I’m starting to see what our evenings in D.C. are going to involve. Huddled around a laptop, me helping you pull one over on Henry, or watching a stupid movie, or doing stuff for class.”

And even though this simple declaration makes John’s heart hum happily, the thing Alex said about his dad doesn’t quite ring true. A small, cynical part of himself still can’t help but wonder, when it comes down to it, if Alex really _would_ help him with anything serious against his father’s wishes. 

Still, he barks a laugh and ruffles Alex’s hair roughly. “Everything I’ve learned, I learned from the best.” 

“Hey!” Alex yelps, ducking away. “You’re such an idiot, John.”

“As I say,” he smirks. “Learned from the best.”

————

Alex chooses his timing carefully. He needs to catch Henry when he’s in a good mood, working but not snowed under, as much off his guard as possible. The perfect opportunity presents itself just before they’re scheduled to drive up to D.C. to start settling in for their first semester of college.

He’s planned everything down to the clothes he’s wearing - the nice tailored pants Henry had made for him, and a well-fitting polo shirt, untucked, that he swiped from Harry’s clean laundry pile. His hair is tied back in a messy bun, neither open and vulnerable, nor neatly pulled back. He’s rehearsed his words a hundred times: in the car to school, in the shower, lying awake at night with adrenaline singing in his veins.

He kicks himself again for playing his biggest card - actually having sex with Henry - before making his bargain. If he could do it again he’d change things around, because this way he comes across as a plaything first and a proper ally second. But that just means he has to work a little harder to make sure Henry knows he is dead serious.

Before he can chicken out, he knocks on the study door, and steps inside at the muffled sound of Henry’s summons.

Henry appraises him coolly as he enters. Alex isn’t quite sure how Henry can look at him so unemotionally, after having him splayed open and writhing beneath him in a hotel bed. Alex certainly can’t look at his foster father’s strong hands or quirked lips without feeling a flush rising up his neck. But that’s the point, isn’t it? He needs Henry to teach him how to hide these feelings in the same way that he does. Because one thing Alex now knows is that Henry is not as unaffected by him as he makes himself appear. 

He doesn’t have any intention of letting Henry fuck him again - but _Henry_ doesn’t need to know that.

Alex turns to close the door and snatch a final fortifying breath, then approaches the massive desk.

Henry’s eyes flicker once down his body - the gaze is intentionally lewd and calculated to make him shift uncomfortably - before a detached smile spreads on his face. “Alexander? Was there something you needed?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, trying to stand up straight but not look too stiff. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth for good measure. He can let Henry get the wrong idea about what he’s here for; that might help put him off his guard.

Henry puts down his pen and leans back in his leather chair, the sleeves of his shirt pull taught over his strong arms as he folds them expectantly. “Well, what is it, boy? I’m working.”

Alex knows he can’t jump in with his request right away. This is chess. He needs a subtle opening gambit.

He swallows nervously.

“I was hoping to get your advice, sir.”

Henry’s lips almost pull into a smile, but he suppresses it and raises an eyebrow. “About?”

“My career, sir.” 

Henry tilts his head slightly and Alex knows at once that he has him interested. “That’s a pleasant surprise, considering none of my sons are interested in my guidance. Very well. Sit.”

This is a good opener; Alex has shifted enough pawns out of the way to pull a few stronger pieces onto the board. He sits down and licks his lips, pretending to be more hesitant than he is. Henry told him not to appear too smart or capable, and it was good advice.

“Well, sir,” he starts, tucking some hair shyly behind his ear, “You helped me with my application, so you know I’m interested in - well, following in your footsteps.”

Henry doesn’t bother to hide his smirk, and Alex feels a little swell of triumph; good, he needs Henry arrogant and unguarded. “Is that so?”

“Of course, sir. The work you do is important. You have sway and influence, and the things you do make a real difference.” He looks into the grey eyes and says, “And you already know I find that kind of power… appealing.” 

He lets his breath catch a little as he exhales.

Henry raises his eyebrow as a mocking smile spreads across his face. His gaze is boring into Alex, and for a moment Alex is sure they’re remembering the very same things. He gets an inkling that the dismissive, scornful looks might be what Henry uses to mask his curiosity - and his more sordid interest.

“Ah, so is _that_ what you are here for?”

“Not... exactly, sir,” he says with a coy pout and a shy blush - he’s been practicing. “You’ve been so patient with me, teaching me all sorts of things, and now I need your guidance again. On what I can start doing now to help me get ahead if I go into public service.”

Henry watches him for a long moment, and the derisive smirk seems to shift into something more appraising. “Did you not find my instruction in D.C. helpful?”

Alex sucks in his bottom lip, as though biting back an embarrassed grin, and shakes his head. “No, sir, it was - very useful. I suppose what I’m asking for is… is more instruction.”

Henry tilts his head; his expression is stern but his eyes gleam darkly. “Alexander, you--”

But Alex hasn’t finished, and he decides that interrupting Henry is worth the risk if he can pass it off as desperate overeagerness to get his request out.

“I don’t mean _that…_ necessarily.” He gives a jerky little shrug, as though the implication embarrasses him. “I want to learn more about power, about politics. You seem to see through it all so easily. Through me. You know stuff I can’t learn from a textbook. I know it’s not as clean and glamorous and noble as it looks.”

From Henry’s expression, Alex can tell he’s beginning to really interest his foster father. He clenches his jaw and looks away, playing with some of the loose hair around his face. 

_Slow down,_ he reminds himself. _Let Henry pursue you._

“Maybe I’m being stupid. I mean, what could someone like _me_ achieve? Sorry, sir, I--”

Henry leans forward, his hands steepled on the desk between them, his eyebrows narrowed.

“You show promise, my boy. Of course you do, or I would not have taken you to the city otherwise.”

Alex tries to fight back his pleased grin, then fails - but he knows it reads as awed, overeager pride rather than the flicker of triumph it really is.

“Really? Thank you, sir,” he gushes. “I--”

But Henry holds out a hand to silence him.

“The truth, Alexander, is that politics has nothing to do with secret cabals or deep-state conspiracies. The business of governing is frighteningly mundane. It comes down to this simple fact - everyone has a weakness, and most people are too arrogant to admit and manage it, or too ignorant to hide it properly. Discover the weakness, and you twist the man.”

“How do I find out someone’s weakness?” Alex says, putting uncertainty into his voice. But this _is_ actually interesting, he thinks. Useful.

Henry looks at him perceptively. “There are two sources of weakness. Action, and character. The first one is simple. People do illegal or immoral things all the time. Find enough evidence of the misdeed - at least, enough to make them think you know the whole story - and then suggest they may be better served in cooperating with you.”

“So, like, blackmail?”

Henry scoffs. “Nothing so crude as that, Alexander. Leverage.”

“And the other kind?”

“Ah.” Henry leans back in his chair, smiling to himself. He’s getting into this, Alex thinks, which means he’s lowering his guard. “Much more interesting, and more powerful - because it goes to the heart of who a man is. Take Jack.” Henry shoots Alex a knowing look. “Soft, emotional, undisciplined, driven by an excess of what he calls compassion - but it really is just his misdirected self-doubt. Persuade him that what you need is ‘the right thing to do’, no matter how underhanded, and he’ll do all the work of convincing himself to act in the way you require.”

Alex nods along, marvelling at how little Henry knows his eldest son. And he can’t quite make himself see John’s kindness as the debilitating flaw Henry thinks it is. But, again - useful.

“This is why,” Henry says with a sigh, “I have tried so hard to toughen him up. His vulnerability to emotional manipulation weakens him - and by extension, me. You, at least, don’t seem to have this defect.”

“Oh? Then what’s _my_ weakness?”

Henry laughs cruelly. “I think you know what it is well enough.”

Actually, Alex reaslises, he doesn’t - or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that he isn’t as quick to come to a clear answer as Henry is. But Henry knows only this one facade that Alex has presented - and _this_ Alex’s weakness is overeagerness.

So he licks his lips and widens his eyes, watches Henry’s amused gaze flash slightly at the vulnerability in his expression. “I’m not sure I do, sir. Won’t you tell me?”

“No. That is a matter for your own introspection, then.”

Alex frowns uncertainly. “Okay. But so - if I know someone’s weakness, how… how do I use that to twist them?”

Henry smiles, shark-like. “You are asking me to explain things that would be better taught in a practical context.. However, I’m sure you have some idea. Francis Kinloch is an arrogant young man, and you knew that stroking his - ah, his ego would make him liable to talk. You used your appearance of harmlessness and ignorance to make yourself seem a safe confidant.”

Alex nods slowly. He realises that, without exactly meaning to, that is precisely what he did. So many men in this world of wealthy republicans and self-important sycophants think that they are too smart to make any errors. 

And he has even caught a glimpse of this in Henry. He fights back a smile.

“The prioritisation of optics and self-preservation over good sense is how power is maintained and bargained. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

“Yes,” Alex says. He takes a breath, sits up straighter, and moves to put the king in check. He banishes the waver from his voice when he says, “And for that reason, I don’t understand why you took your foster son’s virginity in a hotel room. What are the optics on that?”

Henry scowls, draws together his brows and glares at the surface of the desk. But a moment later, his expression breaks and a cruel smile pulls his lips wide - and Alex can see that the discomfort was an act. 

“Oh, Alexander. Do not take me for a fool. We did not do anything illegal.” 

Alex bites down hard on his lip against the desire to jump to his feet and set Henry straight - that Alex was in fact below the age of consent, and that D.C. law prohibits sex with a foster child regardless of which state the parties are from or how old they are. And he wants to echo what Henry himself just said - that it _looks_ bad, and that’s enough. But he exerts a superhuman restraint that he’s surprised to find in himself, and just lets himself squirm. He needs to keep playing this version of Alex that’s just a little too naive, intelligent but not quite smart or strategic enough to keep up.

So Alex feigns another embarrassed blush. 

“Besides,” Henry sneers, “Who would ever believe you?”

“Someone might. The whispers about it would be harmful enough.”

“But, you silly boy, don’t you see? The ruse is so utterly transparent. My reputation is unimpeachable. But you, a scheming young man brimful of anger and resentment, clawing at every possibility of advancement? You would be suspected of exactly what you are doing right now - trying to get leverage over me.”

He braces himself, one sweaty hand gripped tight around the top of the armrest. This is his opening.

“I’m not looking for leverage. Sir.”

“Oh?”

He drops the blush, the coy tone, the anxious posture. He sits forward in his chair and looks Henry dead in the eye and doesn’t flinch. “No. I want a job.”

For the first time, he sees that he has genuinely surprised Henry. His foster father lets out an awkward little laugh. “A job?”

“Yes, sir. I’m smart. Resourceful. Discreet. And I’m willing to get my hands dirty. I could help you out with some things - all under the table, of course.”

Henry steeples his fingers and leans back in his chair, smiling in a light, mocking way. “And what things might those be?”

“I can go places, unnoticed, unseen, where you wouldn’t be able to show your face. I can talk people into doing stuff, or get close to them and have them spill their secrets.” Like John. “I can dig around in documents and records and find their skeletons.” Like Francis. “Or, I guess,” Alex meets Henry’s gaze and bites suggestively at his bottom lip, “I can fuck them and make sure there’s evidence.” Like the Charleston congressman. Like _you._ “How much easier would it be to twist someone’s arm if you can hold things like that over their head?”

Henry actually looks thoughtful. “And in return?”

“It’s work,” Alex shrugs. “You’d pay me.”

“Is that all? Money?”

“No,” Alex tilts his head. “I want to learn, too. To operate like you do.”

Henry scoffs. “And why would I waste my time mentoring you?”

Alex lowers his voice. He lets the question hang in the air for a moment, even though his heart is racing with the urgency to fill the silence. “There were others, weren’t there?”

“Others?” Henry asks darkly, not giving him anything.

“Other foster kids, before me. Failed experiments. Even the good ones - the ones who made the paper? None of them quite worked out in the way you wanted.”

He can’t read Henry’s expression now, because it is so calculated to look neutral that it is anything but. So he knows he’s hit the mark.

“But I’m different,” he continues. “You made the right choice, picking me. I won’t let anything get in my way. I don’t get tired. I don’t give up. I don’t get attached or bogged down in emotional stuff. And I know we don’t have to like each other to make an effective team.”

At that, Henry grins, darkly amused. “Oh, on the contrary, Alexander. I like you _very_ much.”

This throws him completely, because it is the nicest and the most terrifying thing Henry has said to him. Henry slips out of what he thought was a guaranteed checkmate.

Clever words are failing him now. He feels the flush burning hot on his cheeks and the back of his neck, watches Henry’s calculating gaze travel from where he’s clasping the arms of his chair to his tightly clenched jaw.

And it is much, much easier to use _this_ than to keep trying out careful, skirting retorts or probing questions. He’s thinking with his gut now, and somehow it feels more right than anything else.

He stands up, Henry’s eyes heavy on him, and walks slowly around the desk. He stops in front of Henry, who has turned his chair slightly in his direction, and perches on the edge of the desk, leaning back so his hips push just slightly forward. His knee is just an inch from the side of Henry’s thigh.

“You know, _sir,_ ” he says with just a breath of a mocking tone, “That I am a very quick study.” He drops his gaze to Henry’s groin for a moment, smiles coyly and then looks away. “Agree to this, and maybe you will finally get the son you deserve. The one you’ve been so desperate to find all along.”

Henry hums a low, dangerous note.

“Or, well,” Alex corrects with a secretive smile, and presses his knee up against Henry’s firm leg, “Not _exactly_ a son.”

Henry is looking at him with that indecipherably neutral expression again, and Alex does not know if he’s just checkmated him for real this time, or thrown his own queen away on a foolish gambit. But he keeps his eyes locked firmly on Henry’s.

They both jump when there’s a knock on the door. 

“Sir?” It’s John.

“Well?” Alex asks urgently. “Do we have a deal? Or is sweet little Jack going to come in to find me on my knees in front of you?”

Henry’s glance darts to the door, then back up at Alex - more serious and searching now. Henry murmurs, “Get back in your chair.”

Alex dashes around the desk as John knocks again, a bit more hesitantly, and Henry clears his throat. Alex has just dropped back into his seat when Henry calls out.

“Yes, Jack? Come in.” 

John opens the door and looks in. Alex glances over his shoulder and sees John give him a puzzled, almost annoyed look. “Sorry, am I interrupting? If y’all are busy…”

“I think we were just about done,” Henry says, giving Alex a significant look. “Right, Alexander?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for all the advice,” Alex says, standing up again. He keeps his tone even, but when his back is turned so that John can’t see his face, he smirks, rolls his eyes and tilts his head to the side, indicating his disdain for the interruption to Henry. His foster father’s lip quirks microscopically in response. “I appreciate your time.”

“My pleasure, Alexander. And as for your request?" Henry levels him with a thoughtful, piercing look. "I think that we might be able to work something out. Let us find a time to meet, once you’re settled in the city. Lunch, perhaps?” Alex nods mutely, aware that both sets of eyes are boring into him. “Now, Jack, was there something you wanted?”

Alex turns to leave. He can’t meet John’s eye as he passes, even though he sees that John shoots him another darkly curious look. John doesn’t stop him, however, and turns to Henry to ask something about their plans for the move to D.C.

Alex keeps his neutral expression intact as he dashes back to his room, but the moment he’s inside and the door is closed, he lets out a massive pent-up breath.

Mission accomplished.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!
> 
> This is the second-last chapter of the _Portrait_ arc! First off, thanks to all of you who have stuck around for this little adventure, and for those who joined along the way - we love you guys, especially our regulars (you know who you are! <3 )
> 
> We've been hard at work on the next story in the series, following our boys to Georgetown, but there's going to be a bit of a break between the end of this one and the start of the next one while we hammer out the main plot points.
> 
> But, fear not! In the meantime, we want you to SEND US REQUESTS - let us know which missing moments or scenes from the _Portrait_ timeline you'd like to see, and we'll put together our favourite suggestions into a collection that we'll publish during our season break. 
> 
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> 
> Don't be shy! :D

John times his last trip to the stables for midmorning on a school day, skipping classes he no longer needs to pretend to care about. The barn is quiet and cool, in contrast to the heat outside, and he fetches a set of brushes on his way to Monarch’s stall. The big black horse pokes his nose out when John clicks to him, snuffling curiously at the bucket and then at John’s hair. 

He laughs fondly, but he feels a thick, heavy weight in his chest as he steps inside. Monarch drops his head and nickers quietly.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” John says, setting down the bucket and pulling out a curry comb, “But I’m going away.”

John can count on less than one hand the number of things he’s going to miss about home when he finally leaves for college next week - not the stifling rules, or biting his tongue, or pushing down every independent thought or inconvenient emotion that threatens to bubble up. Certainly not Henry’s sneering spectre lurking around every corner.

Sure, he’ll miss the kids and the home-cooked dinners and the beautiful grounds, the spaces that remind him of mom, but he’ll give those up for a chance to make a home that runs according to his own rules. Besides, he gets to take Alex along on this adventure, and Alex feels more like home than anything associated with the house and his life here anyway. 

The only really significant thing he’s giving up is Monarch.

He lets Monarch sniff the brush, then starts to rub his coat in vigorous circles, creating a haze of dust and fine hair in the morning light. He can’t count the number of times he’s done this, but he takes his time today, going into all the little nooks he usually skips and trying to imprint the memory of the smell, the sounds, the feel on his brain.

He thinks Monarch must sense his mood, because he stands quietly and watches him with his deep brown eyes.

“College is gonna be… Wow, I don’t even know. New. Big. Liberating. I’m a little anxious, of course,” John murmurs, just like he’s shared countless other private thoughts with the one friend who has never judged him. “I’m worried about the kids - about Harry, mostly - but I’ll be down to visit every weekend and they can always call me if they need something. And you’ll check in on Jemmy for me when he comes to visit you, right?” 

He rubs at a patch of dried mud, and coughs when it flakes away into the air. 

“But mostly I’m really excited.”

Monarch blinks; John passes carefully around his hindquarters and to his other side, and resumes his brushing.

“It’s going to be a whole new start. New people, new city - yeah, it’s D.C. and yeah, I’ll still be school work - but, whatever. You know the best thing? It’s going to be me and Alex doing it together.” He pauses for a second, rubbing a bit of dust out of his eye. “You know Alex. You’ve met him. I think he likes you.”

Monarch lazily shifts his weight, which is good enough as a confirmation for John.

“I mean, that’s going to be difficult in some ways, because obviously I can’t tell him how I feel, right? But it’s fine.” John drops the curry comb and picks out the soft brush, then starts to brush off the dust and loose hairs. “We can look out for each other. It’s really funny how Alex thinks he can do _everything_ on his own.”

Monarch snorts and shakes his neck, fluttering his mane.

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, pretending he feels scolded. “I’ve gotten better too, okay?” He brushes in silence for a minute. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Monarch flicks his tail. John walks around to his head and tickles under his chin.

“I think something is going on with Alex and my dad. I don’t know what it is, but I’m worried about him.” 

John pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts. He has absolutely no evidence for his suspicions, except for an unmissable churning anxiety in his gut that just _tells_ him something is lurking under the surface of their domestic facade. It’s tiny things that trigger it - Alex passing up a chance to say something rude about his father, the little shifts in his posture when Henry comes into the room, the weird look in his eyes after one of their endless fucking chess games or private meetings in his dad’s office. 

He thinks back to all the other foster kids - the ones who survived Henry, and the ones who didn’t - and how John always instinctively knew when things were about to go off the rails. The way the air is shifting with Alex is different, but there’s no doubt it has changed.

It _should_ be nothing. But it feels like something.

“You think I should ask him about it?” Monarch doesn’t respond either way, so John shrugs. “At least us being in D.C. is going to mean less time with dad. And that can only be a good thing, right?” Monarch flicks an ear. “Right,” John laughs.

He digs out the hoof pick, then stands next to Monarch’s right foreleg, leans his shoulder into his side and runs his hand down the leg until Monarch lifts his hoof. He cleans it with the pick and then the brush, then moves on to the hind leg. 

“I just want what’s best for Alex, you know? We’ll never be able to - well… - but at least I can be the big brother he deserves, really look out for him. I think it will be easier without dad hovering around. That’ll give Alex some perspective. He doesn’t like to look weak or ask for help, but I think he trusts me enough to be real with me.” John finishes the last hoof, then sighs deeply and buries his face in Monarch’s mane. “Now all I need is to meet a nice guy who will let me get my mind off Alex in _that_ other way.”

He grabs the face brush and rubs gently along the ridge of Monarch’s eyes, then across his cheeks.

“Just my luck, huh? This amazing guy comes along but he just happens to be my foster brother. It’s like one of those bad teen romcoms, only it’s real.” He sighs. “But I’m just so glad I get to have him in my life, regardless of how.”

He runs the brush gently across the ears and down the soft muzzle. Then John leans his forehead against Monarch’s face and reaches up to pet the top of his neck.

“I was grateful to have you in my life too, you big stupid horse,” he murmurs. 

Monarch lets out a big sigh, and John slips under his head and wraps his arms around the warm neck, buries his face in the clean black coat, and - for the first time in longer than he can remember - lets himself cry. It’s safe here, because this is a clean, uncomplicated, nostalgic sadness - saying goodbye to a good friend, but also closing a chapter of his life, the inevitable time when he must move on from childhood things and step into a bigger world.

He breathes in the smell of the warm fur, thinking of all the matches they won and lost, all the times he fell off and got right back on, the hours he’s spent in this stable grooming or mucking out, whispering his greatest fears into the flickering ears, or just sobbing into Monarch’s patient shoulder when it all became too much and he didn’t have anyone left to talk to. 

“Thank you - for everything.” 

Monarch lets out a breath, and John takes that as a fond goodbye.

\-----

John has been saying his other goodbyes too, to old friends and old haunts, and other than Monarch they have been unemotional. He doesn’t even bother going to the graveyard, because he carries mom and Henry Jr around in his mind and in the precious little binder of photos that he’s tucked away safely with his laptop.

Each of the kids comes to him in turn and he gives them the space they need to say goodbye in their own way. 

“You’re so lucky,” Martha whines when she corners him in mom’s flower garden. “Because you get to leave.”

“You’ll be next,” John reminds her. “Just three more years.”

She groans exaggeratedly. “Not unless they lock me up for murdering Harry first.” 

“You should really try to get along with him.”

“Fuck that. Fuck you. _You_ never tried.”

John sighs and ignores that jab. “You can always come up and stay for the weekend if it gets too much. I’m sure dad won’t mind.”

“What, in your gross bachelor frat den? No thanks.”

“I’m not joining a fraternity,” John says absently, pretending to turn back to his sketch to give Martha the space she needs.

“Whatever.” She walks up to one of the flower beds and nudges one of the stones lining it out of place with her foot. “Once you’re out of the house, dad’s not gonna give a shit about the rest of us.”

“But that’s good, right?”

“ _Obviously,_ ” Martha says, stretching the word out.

“So what’s the problem?”

She jams her hands onto her hips. “This is _so_ fucking rich coming from you, you asshole. Who do you think is going to be the sole fucking parent now?”

John puts down his pencil again. “Harry and Jemmy are old enough to look after themselves. You take care of Polly anyway now. It’s not going to be any different.”

“Ughhh!” Martha stamps her foot, and John sees the shimmer of frustrated tears in the corners of her eyes. She swallows hard, then says, in a much meeker voice, “You’re the _only_ one I don’t hate.”

John puts his notebook aside, walks over, and reaches out to wrap his arms around her. She resists for only a second before he feels her hands clutch at his lower back. “You’ll be fine, _Chiqui_ ,” he says, using the old pet name their mother had given her. “You’re the toughest of all of us, and in a few years you’ll talk dad into sending you to some fancy liberal arts college and you’ll kick ass at whatever you choose to do after that. You just need to hang in a little longer.”

She’s quiet for a long time, not crying or speaking, just taking deep breaths. Eventually, she says, “I’m so fucking glad you’re getting out of here.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t come back.”

John pulls away a little. “What?”

“Come _visit,_ obviously,” she says with an exasperated sigh. “But… don’t come _back._ Not for dad, and not for us. Promise?”

John lets out a small laugh. “What are you so worried about?”

“Suffocating,” she says.

But before John can ask her what she means, Martha draws away from him. She starts to complain at length and in great detail about all the petty little things she’ll have to deal with now that he’s going to be away, but John knows she’s thanking him for all of it in her own backhanded way.

\-----

In the last two weeks, Jemmy temporarily takes Alex’s spot as the person who clings to him the most, rarely leaving his side and inventing such an endless list of things they should do together - go to the movies and play Monopoly and take a boat out on the lake and read stories together and go riding and… - that John eventually has to make up other commitments and hide in Alex’s room just to get a break. 

Even Polly comes to stand in front of him one evening while he’s sorting out some paperwork on the couch and crosses her chubby little arms accusingly. 

“You’re going away,” she says.

“That’s right, munchkin. I’m going off to live in Washington, where dad works.”

She pouts in confusion. “Why?”

“For school.”

She accepts this readily enough, familiar as she is with all of them complaining about endless school duties. “Will you bring me a present?”

John laughs. “Yeah. Sure thing,” he says, and that seems to dispel the last of her worries.

\-----

His father sends for him about a week before they are scheduled to leave; Henry is off to Columbia himself tomorrow and this is their last night together at the house.

“Jack,” he says curtly when John knocks and comes in. “Good. I have a few things I’d like to say.”

His dad doesn’t invite him to sit, so John bites the inside of his cheek and clasps his hands behind his back. 

“You are embarking on a significant new phase of your life - you are a young man, striking off on his own, and I appreciate that this means you will permit yourself some, ah, freedoms. But you must always remember that you are a Laurens first, and my son, and that your words and actions reflect on all of us. And if you _must_ misbehave,” he adds with a mocking laugh, “Please have the courtesy of doing so in a way that will not be made public.” 

Henry pauses expectantly, so John says, “Yes, sir.”

“I have tried my best, sometimes with little success, to instil in you the values that would guarantee your success in life.” Henry sighs and leans back in his chair. “However, I have begun to appreciate that it is the father’s burden to always feel that one has fallen short in this obligation. Nevertheless, you have always been dutiful, in your own way, and I am certain that as you grow into yourself you will begin to appreciate the wisdom in my lessons.”

John has no trouble keeping his expression neutral, even though he would prefer to scoff, or retort that it has taken him years of painful work just to begin expunging some of these toxic ideas. It’s a pity his father can’t appreciate just how good he is at maintaining this dispassionate mask, because this would surely be one of the qualities he’d find laudable.

Henry studies him for a moment, and John watches him back, revealing nothing. Eventually, Henry sighs, then stands from his chair and reaches out his hand. John hesitates for a second, then shakes it.

“Make me proud,” Henry says.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” John says, then adds silently - _to be the kind of man you_ should _be proud of._

\-----

When someone knocks on Alex’s bedroom door, he’s expecting it to be John _again_ \- either avoiding his siblings, or planning, un-planning and then re-planning every smallest detail of their move to D.C. If it was anyone else, Alex wouldn’t tolerate it, but this busywork seems to be John’s way of externalising his anxiety about the move, so Alex lets him rattle on endlessly while he half-listens and scrolls through syllabi on his computer.

“Hey, dipshit.”

The door opens to reveal a scowling Martha.

“Maggie!” he says in entirely exaggerated enthusiasm. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His curiosity is genuinely piqued when she steps inside and closes the door, but doesn’t come much further into the room.

He drops his mocking expression and offers a more neutral invitation. “What’s up?”

“We’re not friends,” she says at once. Alex snorts and is about to say something snarky, but she continues, “But I still have to ask you a favour.”

“I’m listening.”

She grumbles something to herself. “John’s the best person ever. But he’s also an idiot.”

Alex feels a grin spreading. “Agreed on both counts.”

“And you’re a shithead, but you’re smart. Like, you’ve been out in the ‘real world’.” She says it with heavy air quotes, like she doesn’t quite believe it exists herself.

“Still with you.”

“And for some reason I can’t figure out, John _likes_ you.” She says it with a weird inflection, and for a second Alex thinks she might be jealous of their bond. 

“Seems to.”

“So…” Her face twists into a hesitant scowl. “You have to look after him. For me.”

Alex nods seriously.

“You see, he’s always so--” She clenches her two hands together tightly to demonstrate what she means. “I’ve never seen him let loose. Not properly. I know he’s gonna try to be all proper at first, but when he figures out dad isn’t watching all the time…”

“You’re afraid he’s going to run wild?”

“ _No_ ,” she insists angrily, like he’s wilfully missing the point. “I _hope_ he does. He could do with having some fun. I just wanna be sure someone’s there to stop things going completely off the rails.”

“And you came to _me_?” Alex laughs, though he tries to make it clear he’s teasing.

“Ughh!” She stamps her foot. “You’re such a fucking _asshole_.”

Alex sighs good-naturedly. “Okay, okay, Martha - I’m kidding. Just so happens we have the same agenda. I’ll look out for your big brother for you. Make sure he has the right kinds of - fun.”

“And if John gets hurt because you messed that up in any way…”

“Yeah, yeah!” He holds his hands up defensively. “You’re fucking terrifying, I know that.”

She nods sharply, finally pleased with the outcome of the discussion. She turns to leave.

“You know,” Alex says, as she reaches for the door handle. “Your dad’s an idiot for overlooking you.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, yanking the door open. “I know.”

\-----

Harry is the only one he has to seek out himself. John knows there’s a mountain of unspoken stuff between them as a result of Henry’s uncompassionate parenting, because after John had endured it himself, he’d tried to shield the others from it. Harry never liked being treated with kid gloves, but John hopes his little brother never has to appreciate the full extent of the things he’s been spared. And despite Harry’s horrible attitude, John thinks he’s one of the few people who still sees the decent, sensitive parts of Harry that he has become so good at covering up. 

Harry and Alex have a lot in common, now that he thinks about it.

He watches Harry’s mood for a few days and chooses an evening where he seems less prickly than usual. After dinner, John knocks on his door and waits for permission to enter.

“Got a second?”

Harry rolls his eyes but he closes his laptop, then pulls his knees up into his chest. “What do _you_ want?”

John sits down next to him on his bed. “I’m leaving in a few days.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So,” John echoes with a little smile, “That means you’re going to be the big brother now.”

Harry frowns at him, but it’s thoughtful rather than annoyed. “Oh.”

“And that comes with responsibilities, okay?” He puts a firm hand on Harry’s knee. “You need to look after all of them, even Martha, but you can’t make it super obvious. It means being a bit more grown up, learning how to pick your battles with dad, being there for the others when they need your help even if you think it’s dumb or you have other stuff to do. I won’t be around so I need to know that I can count on you. You think you can handle that?”

Harry’s frown deepens, and he drops his gaze to his knees, but his posture shifts a little so that he’s sitting up taller.

“Yeah,” he shrugs.

“But I’m still _your_ big brother, so you call me any time, for anything. Especially if you’re having a hard time with dad. Got it?”

Harry looks like he’s about to shrug again, but instead he sucks in his lip and looks away. Then he says, softly, “I’m scared of him.”

John sighs, and redoubles his grip on Harry’s knee. “Yeah. Me too.” Harry looks up in surprise and meets his eyes, and they share a deep, honest moment of connection. “Try to remember that he does care about us underneath it all, and if he’s harsh, it’s because he wants us to be the best we can be. But also don’t forget that you’re your own person. Just because you need to _do_ what he says, at least while you’re still living here, that doesn’t mean you need to _think_ what he thinks. About the world - or about yourself.”

Harry grimaces to himself and looks like he’s about to speak, but then closes his mouth again and doesn’t share whatever thought has just struck him.

“Just because you don’t turn out exactly how he hoped, it doesn’t mean you’re any less worthwhile,” John says, and suddenly he’s not sure if he’s speaking to Harry, or to the frightened little kid buried deep inside himself who just wanted someone to appreciate him for who he really was.

\-----

When Alex slides his ratty old suitcase out from under the bed, where he’s forgotten it over the course of the last eighteen months, it’s covered in a layer of dust. He runs a finger idly around the off-brand logo on the plastic patch stuck to the front, and tries to put a name to the sudden emotion that claws up from deep inside his chest and prickles at his eyes.

It’s like he can suddenly see back across time, to that first terrifying day a year and a half ago when he’d been deposited in this big empty room and left to his own devices.

He had gained so much since then. Henry’s esteem, foremost, and John’s affection - these are his two biggest trophies. Life experience. Knowledge, some of it from books, some from experience and wisdom. A future that feels brighter and less precarious than ever before.

Not to mention - a big pile of stuff. He looks at the personal belongings he’s arrayed on the bed, neatly stacked or folded and ready for packing. He’s doubled his stock of clothing, considering the new coat and the green scarf and the trousers Henry had made for him, as well as the cardigan and shirts he’s stolen off Harry’s laundry pile. There are new books too - his own, to _keep_ \- and random assorted knick-knacks. 

His old suitcase might not even be big enough for all of it. John did offer to get some of the Laurens family luggage out of storage for him to borrow, but Alex insisted on using his own. He’s proud of this case. It’s been with him a long time, and it doesn’t feel right to move without it.

Overwhelmingly, he’s excited - a novel sensation when it comes to packing his bags. For the first time, the new chapter he is embarking on is entirely in his control, and it’s one that has always felt both inevitable and incredibly far away. But he has clawed and fought and worked for it, and college is now just a week from being reality. Alex knows how quickly circumstances can force you to grow up, but this growth is going to be healthy and constructive rather than traumatic. 

Every step he takes from now on will lead him towards responsibility, commitments, complex entanglements with the wider world. He’s ready for it, of course. But this moment demands acknowledgement. 

If the world has been less cruel, or perhaps cruel in a different way, his mom would be holding him by the shoulders right now and admiring the young man he’s become. He has new questions for her, now, questions that hadn’t occurred to him as a little kid - what it means to be a good man, how to know that he’s picked the right battles, what things matter most to a successful life. 

But she’s gone, and it’s time he started seriously growing up and finding the answers for himself. 

He unzips the suitcase and finds the items he hid there long ago - crumpled banknotes, the book, the single change of clothes - and cannot remember being the kid who secreted these things away. 

Deep, deep down below the excitement, seeing these objects sparks a kernel of mourning, because he gets the inescapable feeling that he has _lost_ something too. 

He doesn’t know what to label it; _purity_ or _innocence_ or _naivety_ all sound wrong because he has felt those eroding steadily over the course of his life. 

Perhaps what he’s lost is his sense of clarity - the immature belief that he understood how the world worked because everything had been starkly black and white to him. Henry alone has shattered that perception. On paper, Alex should loathe him for all the things he says and does and stands for. But he has never been so in awe of anyone before, and he admires Henry precisely for all the same things that should make Alex hate him. 

And then there’s John, who’s a human bundle of contradictions, exactly the sort of aloof rich kid Alex would have shunned if they’d met anywhere else. He doesn’t understand how John can be stoic and tough - almost, Alex admits, as tough as he is - but then also be so effortlessly kind, or how he picks vicious fights in school but loses his nerve when a boy he likes glances his way. And John has also cracked Alex’s worldview in a more fundamental way, because before they’d met Alex had known for certain than any path he walked in life he'd be walking alone. But now? 

John’s called him family enough times that Alex has started to believe it.

Perhaps what he lost is his healthy caution. 

He realises how far he has dropped his defenses, how much he has come to rely on, even expect, the trappings of a comfortable life. It’s like his psyche has been fattened - spoiled by regular mealtimes and a working thermostat, by a school library full of books and a home library bursting with even more knowledge, by the safety that comes from Henry’s unassailable wealth and status, even by a quiet garden he can walk in for hours. 

And - most of all - by John’s immovable place at his side, in his bed, in his mind, always supportive, never more than an arm’s length away when there’s danger or sadness or fun. 

This tally of security and comfort _should_ make him breathe easier, but it has the opposite effect. His ribs squeeze around his lungs and he starts, suddenly, to cry. 

The Alex who packed this bag had been so _afraid,_ so _alone._ That Alex had not been used to gestures of thoughtless affection and intentional kindness. He wishes desperately for the ability to reach backwards through time and tell him that yes, really, this time things would work out okay.

But, wiping ineffectually at his cheeks, Alex realises that his younger self had been tougher, too. That kid survived stuff that this Alex, right now, thinks he might struggle to face. 

Perhaps what he’s lost is his razor-sharp survival instinct?

If so, that’s only because his life has become about more than just surviving. He’s started flourishing, has gained the time and space and comfort to indulge in growth that’s not just focused on essential survival skills. Fuck, he’s conversant in Hume and Burke and Ovid. Nobody _needs_ to know that shit. But he wouldn’t surrender the knowledge for anything.

This is the problem. He needs to stop wallowing in old patterns. 

Maybe holding on so strongly to the idea of survival is what’s holding him back. 

He stares down at his suitcase, and it no longer looks like a symbol of his pride and freedom. It really is just a sad, dirty, tattered relic of a life that he will never, ever visit again.

Alex zips it up, then hauls himself off the floor and wipes his cheeks dry on his sleeve. He pads across to John’s room and peeks in through the open door. 

“Change of plans,” Alex says. “I’m going to need that fancy luggage of yours after all.”


	26. Chapter 26

When they finally squeeze through the last of the central Columbia traffic and speed back up on the highway, John breathes a sigh of relief that he didn’t realise he was holding in.

Columbia is about as far as his everyday life has extended up until now, and breaking through that cordon feels like freedom. Every minute takes John further away from the old version of his life - and himself - that he is completely ready to leave behind.

“Should have timed our departure a bit better,” he says, easing back in his seat. “But at least we’re through the worst of it.”

Alex is beside him in the passenger seat, and as they reach their cruising speed, he puts his feet up on the dash and arches backwards with an exaggerated sigh. 

“Until we get to Richmond. Maybe if we stop somewhere before then we can drive through when it’s less busy.” Alex has been uncharacteristically quiet and sombre so far, probably bored or tired or lost in his own thoughts about the move. This is the first time he’s spoken since they left the Charleston outskirts. 

“Oh, god, we’re not going anywhere near Richmond!” John says lightly. “I was thinking we can take the road north and go through Charlotte. Just so you can finally see how much shittier North Carolina is,” he adds with a wink. 

“Trying to instill that palmetto pride?” Alex smirks. He props one elbow on the car door and leans his head onto it, falling silent again.

John has been quiet too. 

It was his idea to drive up to D.C. instead of flying and getting a moving company to bring their stuff. Dad had been against it, of course, but John had pushed and compromised on other things until he got his way. It had felt important that his first step away from home be one that he takes entirely by himself, and he’d relished the idea of a whole day in the car with Alex, chatting and laughing and shedding their old skins. A big part of him is regretting that decision now.

For one, he’s exhausted and on edge, riding the weird mix of adrenaline and nerves that has been humming below his skin for weeks. There’s a dull ache behind his eyes, and his stomach is still knotted up with tension that he just can’t shake. But it’s not the move that’s causing it. He’s decided to broach the topic that’s been on his mind for far longer than that - this irrational worry about whatever Alex and his dad have been up to. John has realised that this car ride might be his only chance to bring it up. It’s not something they could talk about at home, and the moment they arrive in D.C., they’re going to get swept up in all the excitement of their new lives. But here, now, they’re in a liminal space. Just him and Alex, and another eight hours of open road ahead of them.

He just needs to ease Alex into talking a bit first. Then he’ll find a good opening.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.

Alex huffs, turns to look out the window, then says, “If we get to a quiet stretch of road, will you let me have a turn?”

“At _driving_?” John asks. This is not a topic he was expecting.

“How hard can it be? I can ride a bike.”

John opens his mouth, then closes it, a little stunned. “You’re either joking, or you’re suicidal. I can’t tell.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “You just step on the accelerator and… it goes, right? I don’t wanna parallel park or anything. Please?”

John bursts out laughing. “Okay, I’ll make you a deal - if we find a side road somewhere that’s not the highway, and if you can actually _start_ the car, I’ll let you drive it.”

Alex shrugs, accepting this as a victory, and yawns. He grins cheekily. “Great. If you need a nap, I can take over.”

“Yeah, like I’d be sleeping soundly then…” John chuckles. “Nah, I’m good. It’s nice to be out here, just the two of us and nothing else to do except drive and chat.”

“Yeah, we never drive anywhere longer than like ten minutes.”

“You mean, you never _get driven_ longer than ten minutes.”

Alex scowls. “I asked your dad like eight times to start driving lessons. I bet he was worried I’d steal one of the cars and escape or something.”

John scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Alexander,” he imitates in Henry’s tone, “You must focus on your academics and put such silly notions out of your head.”

Alex grins. “You can teach me. I can take my test in D.C.”

“Sure. I guess it isn’t that hard. You just have to focus on the road and not start arguing with other drivers. Think you can handle that?”

“Come on, you know me - cool, calm, collected.” They both snort at that, almost in tandem. “And anyway, I’ll study up. I bet I’ll pass first time.”

“It’s not the kind of thing you can just learn from a book, you know?”

“Says who?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong - but aren’t you also the person who took a book out of the library and claimed you could play golf after reading it?” 

John remembers the fiasco of that day well. Dad insisted on taking them out on the course ahead of some charity golf thing he was involved in, to see if either of them could play passably enough to take part on the day. John played in his usual mediocre style - unable to focus on the incredibly slow pace of the game, he quickly lost interest and stopped giving a shit about his stroke total, driving his ball down the course in long, uncoordinated hits. 

Alex, on the other hand, was a complete disaster. After insisting that he didn’t need to take any practice swings at the driving range, Alex - whose entire knowledge of the game came from a book and some YouTube videos he’d watched - could barely even hit the ball, and he’d bent at least one club after repeatedly smacking it into the ground. It didn’t help that the embarrassment and frustration just made him less coordinated.

Alex scowls. “Well, I certainly knew the rules. And… well, I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

John snorts. There’s no way he’s conceding this one. “I wouldn’t be surprised if dad’s membership fee went up just to cover the cost of all those divots you made in the turf.”

“Golf’s dumb anyway,” Alex says breezily. “All the men at the golf club are older than your dad. At least with polo you get to see all these fit young guys in tight pants.”

John’s got his eyes on the road, so he can’t look over to see if Alex is teasing him. He blushes a little. “Oh yeah? Been keeping an eye on the players?”

“You made me come to half your games, and when you don’t know what’s going on, you start to focus on other things.”

“I didn’t _make_ you do anything - I doubt that’s even possible. You must have wanted to come at least a little.”

Alex hums and reaches out a hand to ruffle John’s hair. “Well, I dunno. You seem happy when you’re playing. More yourself, I guess. It’s nice.”

John smiles at that, half pleased and half embarrassed. The idea that Alex has been watching him that closely gives him a warm glow. “Yeah, I guess it’s easier to feel that way when you know that you’re good at something. Familiar feeling for you, huh - being great at everything you do.”

“Books, John. That’s the secret. You should read a few.”

John laughs. “So, what’s the first practical skill you’re gonna learn out of a book when you finally hit the Georgetown library?” he teases.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “I was going to do most of the practical learning outside of the library. You know - _people skills_ and all that.”

John knows what Alex is implying, but he doesn’t want to think too much about what their social and intimate lives are going to be like just yet. He’s already been worrying about all the interesting new people Alex is going to be dividing his attention between - not to mention the romantic entanglements he’s bound to have. John doesn’t want to stop Alex from finding new friends and lovers - or even a partner - but he still feels a pang at the thought that, eventually, he’s not going to be the central person in Alex’s life anymore.

But - no, he’s getting too maudlin. He can’t start wallowing in his own selfish anxieties, when really he should be digging into what’s been going on with Alex and his dad.

He steers the conversation onto safer ground. “Yes, well - I’m gonna perfect the art of getting away with the least amount of studying possible.”

Alex shrugs. “Great. Then you can take up a proportionate share of the chores. You’ll have loads of time to do laundry and shit.”

There’s a little bite in Alex’s voice that John doesn’t understand. 

“I can’t believe dad won’t let us get someone to come in once a week and sort all that shit out.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” says Alex wryly. “And I think he’s right.”

There it is again, Alex taking his dad’s side. John feels a nervous thrum under his skin. He’s _not_ imagining it.

When Alex speaks again, his tone is falsely casual. “So, when is Henry gonna meet us in D.C.?”

“In a few days,” John says, trying to study Alex’s reaction out of the corner of his eye, but Alex turns to look out of the side window. “We have a bit of time to settle in. Unpack and all that.”

“God, I’m so excited to see it - our own place! We’re basically right beside campus, aren’t we?”

“Walking distance, since _some_ of us can’t drive. It’s not a big place, but that’s pretty standard for the city. It’ll be cosy.” He smiles at the thought, then remembers something else he’s been meaning to broach now that they have a bit of privacy. “And, actually, I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“Mmm?”

“The apartment has two bedrooms. But since I’m planning to take all these art subjects, it would be useful to have a place to work on that. So, any chance we can use one room as a bedroom for both of us, and the other one as a studio and office and whatever else? You could work there too, obviously.”

“Wait, wait, hang on. You want to share a bedroom? Won’t that get a little… awkward?”

John raises an eyebrow. “We sleep in the same bed at least once a week. So what’s the problem with sharing a room?”

Alex hesitates. “I don’t mind sharing, but what if one of us wants to have someone over?”

“Oh.” John pauses. That hadn’t even occurred to him. He feels an embarrassed flush creeping up the back of his neck. “That’s… a good point. Never mind. I can make another plan.”

“No, wait. I mean, it’s not a completely crazy idea. And it’s kinda my fault you’re taking all those courses in the first place.” Alex reaches out again and pokes him between the ribs, but John swerves slightly and swats his hand away. “I mean, we’ll have a couch in the living room in case of emergencies, and it does make sense for you to have your own studio.”

“Okay,” John concedes, “Let’s see what it looks like when we get there.”

“Honestly, I don’t care. The most important thing is that it’s our space, and that means we make the rules. God, I’m just so glad to be out of the house.”

“Right,” John says, then sets his jaw. This is his chance. “Funny thing, though, Alex. I’m surprised you’re this excited about moving.” 

He says it evenly, but he sees the way Alex’s eyes flick towards him suspiciously before he looks away and laughs incredulously.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Not a lot of chances to play chess anymore, huh?”

Alex’s scowl is sharper now. “What the fuck, John?”

He makes an effort to keep his tone and breathing even. “Thought you’d be sad about not having the chance to spend all that time with dad.”

“What the hell gave you that impression? I mean— don’t get me wrong, but it’s kind of hard to relax with Henry breathing down our necks.”

“Well, yeah, you say that, but…”

“If you have something to say, John, _please_ just fucking say it.”

John sighs. “It’s just… when you first got here, we were on the same page. But the longer you spend with him, the more your opinion seems to be changing.”

Alex bites his lip. “You used to complain all the time about the assumptions I made about you guys, about Charleston and the South and--”

“That was stereotypes!” John interrupts. “That’s different. I’m talking about _him_.”

Alex glances at John, looking mildly perturbed. “Your dad? It’s not like I can just tell him to go fuck himself. I can’t afford to let him get a bad impression of me.”

John tightens his hands around the steering wheel. “You’re talking around me on purpose. I don’t care what he thinks about you. I’m wondering what you think about _him_.”

Alex is silent for a long, painful minute. “You want me to tell you I hate him.”

John’s voice comes out smaller than he intends. “Don’t you?”

“Well, _no,_ John!” Alex scoffs, bristling with defensiveness. “I know I’m an asshole, but I don’t _hate_ anyone who’s literally bankrolling my entire education. He’s got shit politics, and yeah he’s a bit of an asshole but — come on. He’s not literally evil. You know we have stuff in common.”

John swallows. The dark feeling of dread is just intensifying now. He wasn’t wrong. He _wasn’t._ Something weird is going on. 

“Yeah,” he says, and now finds there’s anger rising up his gorge. Most of it at his father, but a little at Alex too. “That’s what I’m getting worried about.”

Alex laughs. “You don’t seriously think I’m turning into some little supervillain’s sidekick? We just talk about Aristotle and shit, it’s not a big deal.”

John sighs, low and deep, under his breath. “If it’s not a big deal, why doesn’t he talk to me about it too?”

Alex scoffs arrogantly. “Why would he? You don’t have the slightest interest in any of it.”

“No, but--” John’s knuckles go white. Anger is clouding his rational mind, and he’s starting to lose the thread of the point he’s making. “Maybe I would have, if he--” He cringes.

“If he what?”

John stares pointedly forward. “If he spent half as much time with me as he does with you.”

Alex’s laugh turns mean. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous? Seriously? You practically run out of every room he enters.”

“I’m not jealous!” John bites the inside of his cheek as he realises - fuck, maybe he _is._ Not of the time spent, but of the rapport Alex has managed to build. How much easier would things have been if his own father had actually _liked_ him? “It’s… He can’t _stand_ me. If I didn’t leave, he’d tell me to. Wouldn’t want me crashing your little party.”

Alex crosses his arms. “I don’t see what there is to get angry at me about.”

“I’m not angry,” John grumbles. “I’m worried.”

Alex glances at him searchingly. His whole posture is cold, walled off. “Why? I don’t get it. Why aren’t you _happy_ for me? I get to be on his good side, I have every resource I need for college, and then for whatever I want to do afterwards. Why is that such a bad thing?”

“Yeah, yeah, good for you, you really lucked out.” John sighs again. Sarcasm isn’t going to help him here; he needs to show Alex he’s on his side in all this. “The reason I’m worried? Alex, I know you. I feel pretty confident saying that after - well, you know, the whole last eighteen months.” He glances sideways to make the point. “And one thing I know is that you don’t do things aimlessly. You always have some sort of agenda.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “I’d have thought my ‘agenda’ was obvious. I don’t try and hide it.”

“Except, you could still get all the stuff you want without… Ugh.” The words are bitter on his tongue. “Without getting that close to him.”

Alex’s voice turns arrogant, which is a pretty good tell that he’s covering something up. “We aren’t _close_. Stop being so paranoid. And, okay, the last foster kid you had that actually half succeeded? He’s - what - running conversion therapy somewhere? Forgive me if I want to achieve a little more than that.”

John grits his teeth at the mention; he’s had to read all about it in the paper. “But that’s _exactly_ my point. No one starts out like that, and he didn’t either. Dad works carefully. Reels you in, so slowly you don’t even notice. But then one day you look up and you realise you’ve drifted completely off course.”

Alex gives a small, smug smile. “What if I’m the one reeling _him_ in?”

John shakes his head. “No. _No,_ Alex. That’s not how it works. If you think that’s what’s happening, then… Shit.” He laughs, a little giddy now. 

It’s so, so, so much worse than he thought. 

Alex shakes his head. “No, John. I think you’re the one missing the big picture here. Even you have to admit he likes me - as far as Henry ever _likes_ anyone. I can get away with stuff. I can get things out of him. He’s useful to me.”

John takes a moment to steady his breathing as a cold flush runs down his spine. He sucks in a breath, and his voice comes out shaky. “Everything you just said scares me.”

Alex reaches over to touch his elbow gently, his voice turned soft and calming. “Listen, don’t worry about me. I’m smart. I can look out for myself.”

But John moves his arm away. “You are the smartest person I know. But you’re no match for him.”

Alex scowls and withdraws his hand. The soothing facade is gone in an instant. “Just because you’re afraid of him doesn’t mean I have to be,” he snaps.

If John didn’t have both hands on the wheel, he'd be tearing at his hair with frustration. “Fuck you, Alex, seriously! You’ve known him for, what, a year and a bit? On and off? Don’t try to tell me you know him better than I do.”

Alex shrugs dismissively. “When was the last time you actually had a conversation with him? Read up about what he’s doing in the Senate? Saw him as a person instead of some fucking — omnipotent demon or whatever?”

“Pretty hard to talk to him when I know what he calls me behind my back.” 

_Weak. Soft. A disappointment. Nothing like his older brother, but God saw fit to take one and not the other._

Then John realises there’s a good chance Henry has said those things about him to Alex, too. He feels a hot, ashamed burn colouring his cheeks.

If he knows what John’s referring to, Alex doesn’t show it. “Well, I talk to him just fine, and you know what conservatives think of poor brown people.”

“Alex…” John shakes his head. Nothing he’s saying is getting through. “At least tell me this - what’s the end game here? What are you trying to get out of him?”

Alex glances at him and narrows his eyes. “You think I wanna become a mini Republican clone, marry some rich girl and settle down in the suburbs? I’m actually insulted.”

John grits his teeth. It’s like Alex is making a deliberate point of misinterpreting and twisting everything he’s saying. “It’s precisely because I know that’s _not_ what you want that I asked that question. What the fuck can he give you if not that?”

Alex laughs. “What _can’t_ he give me? John, my name means nothing. I don’t have any money. Any heritage. If it weren’t for Henry, I’d have a public school education barely good enough for community college. I need connections, a degree, a job, a future - don’t pretend Henry can’t help me with all of those.”

No, John thinks. It doesn’t add up. “The degree I understand, sure. But the rest? Seriously? You really want to get mixed up with his connections? His work?”

“I don’t have to work _for_ him. But even if I did, it’s a foot in the door, isn’t it?”

John slams his hand against the steering wheel. “You _just_ accused me of calling you a mini Republican - which I didn’t, by the way. What the fuck, Alex? At least make up your mind about which lie you’re telling me.”

Alex laughs again. It rolls off his tongue lightly now, like his ease is intended to mock how riled up John has gotten. “I’m sorry, but opportunism isn’t limited to people like them. You really think I’m not going to take the opportunity to squeeze the Republicans that hate people like me for all they’re worth?”

“Hate?” John echoes. “Hate is how they operate! You think you’re pulling some big one over on ‘the man’, but all you’re doing is devoting your extensive talents to their agenda.”

Alex shakes his head dismissively. “Oh, no, I’m not being lectured on politics by someone who doesn’t even understand it. Since when have you taken an interest in this anyway?”

“Since when…?” John chokes. He’s angry again now, hotter than before. He knows that Alex is pushing all his buttons on purpose, but he can’t stop himself reacting. “Oh, you know, since I was old enough to understand how to behave for daddy to make sure we looked like some normal fucking family. It’s been my whole life, Alex! I can’t believe you’d--” he breaks off into a wounded, breathless sound.

But Alex plows on. “Could have fooled me. You’re acting like everything is black and white, but it’s nothing like that! I don’t have to be all self-righteous and uncompromising to make a difference. Fuck, sometimes you have to work with the people you disagree with.”

John doesn’t say anything - he can’t, his jaw too tight to force out words. He feels sick. 

He spots a service road leading off the highway, and he slows down, turns, then pulls the car over onto the side of the road and brings it to a stop.

“I can _not_ be in a confined space with you right now,” he growls as he unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out and slams the door. He storms off down the road, kicking up dirt that stings at his eyes and aggravates his already raw throat. He can feel tears of frustration and anger threatening. 

Alex pushes his own door open roughly. “What the fuck are you doing?” he yells.

John ignores him, wiping at his face with the corner of his sleeve. He walks about fifty yards away and then stops, his back to the car, his fists clenched. He kicks petulantly at a rock in his path.

Alex doesn’t come after him. “If you’re trying to guilt me into apologising, it’s not going to work!” he yells.

“Fuck off,” John yells back. “I know you don’t know how to.”

“Oh, you asshole!” Alex bellows and slams the car door shut. He turns on the radio, dialling the volume up to an obnoxiously loud level and putting his feet back up on the dash.

John sits down heavily in the dirt and leans his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

He feels so overwhelmed all of a sudden - exhausted and emotional and helpless to do anything other than watch Alex dig himself deeper into his trench. This trip was meant to be fun, but John feels miserable right down to his bones. 

The last thing he wanted was to fight, but Alex is being so stubborn and standoffish - not listening to a word he’s saying, twisting John’s words to serve him, purposefully making him angry and upset. He’s seen Alex do this to other people, but he’s never had that full rhetorical arsenal turned on him. 

And here he is - running away. Typical. Coward.

He takes a shuddering breath.

He’s not going to get through if he keeps falling into Alex’s traps, keeps letting himself be worked up and driven off topic. There’s no benefit in taking Alex’s bait, trying to counter the manipulative little straw-man comments that he knows Alex doesn’t even believe himself. 

No, there must be something deeper here that’s making Alex deflect and push back. 

Something more personal. 

Problem is, John doesn’t have a clue what it could be. But one thing he knows for certain is that sitting alone out here on the road, or getting back into the car still fuming with anger, is not going to bring him closer to the truth. He needs to get a handle on himself. For Alex.

He sits out there for a while - ten, maybe fifteen minutes - just trying to breathe steadily, to cool his temper, to remember that he’s doing this out of concern, out of care, out of love. When he finally feels like he’s gathered himself again, John gets up, dusts off his pants, and walks back to the car. He climbs in without saying anything.

Alex looks obstinately out of the opposite window. “If you’re done with your tantrum, we’d better get going.”

John doesn’t start the car. He stares out of the windscreen and lets out a slow breath. Now that he knows what he needs to say, it’s easier to keep his composure and not rise to Alex’s jabs. “You said it’s not black and white, but you’re wrong.”

Alex groans and throws his head back. “Can we not do this? I don’t want to fight anymore.”

John stares pointedly ahead. He speaks in a low, measured voice. “I’m not sure if you know this, but my parents decided to get married in Maryland because interracial marriages were technically illegal in South Carolina till the late nighties. Until I was eight, it was a crime - a jailable _felony,_ Alex - to be gay in the state. There are people alive today, people I’ve met, who had relatives lynched. The ideology behind all that is poison. It _is_ black and white. It’s life and death.”

Alex shifts awkwardly and shakes his head. “I don’t know how any of that relates to me and Henry playing chess a few times a week.”

“You said,” John responds calmly, “That you had no issue working with people you disagreed with. The people you’re talking about don’t disagree with your opinions. They disagree with your right to _exist_.”

Alex laughs sharply. “And you asked me what my end game is. Do you think it isn’t to make sure psychos like that get what they deserve? To tear down every fucking line of legislation that they’ve written about people like us?”

John turns to look at him, finally, and his expression is earnest. Alex squirms a little, not quite able to meet his eyes. “I think that’s what _you think_ you’re doing. But you have to listen to me, Alex. It’s insidious. The little ideas creep in. I’ve spent years just trying to accept that there’s nothing wrong with me - but once they put that little voice of doubt in your head… Fuck. It’s very hard to silence it.” He sighs. “You’re very clever, I know that, but the system they’ve built is smarter and stronger than you are.”

Alex frowns and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “You talk about these people - these ancient, stupid Republicans - like they’re all-powerful. If you think they’ll always be stronger, well... then what’s the point even trying, by your logic?”

“Alex, don’t twist my words. There’s a difference between working against the system, and thinking you can break it from the inside.”

Alex tilts his chin up defiantly. “Yeah, well, there’s only so much you can do from the outside, too. I don’t mind putting on a mask so they let their guard down, but you seem to think that’s the equivalent of me condoning everything they’ve ever done.”

John looks down and shakes his head. He needs to stop getting distracted and get to the heart of the matter. “Okay,” he says, quieter, kinder. “Be honest with me. What did he promise you?”

Alex puffs up, all loud and indignant. “Henry doesn’t ever _promise_ anything - I thought you knew that. You make it sound like I signed my soul away. He just— he mentions internships, law school, everything I need to make a name for myself, get power _for myself_.”

John’s face twists. “Yeah, and then he offers to set you up with a firm of your own, just as long as you do him some favours. Or he puts in a good word in the House to get you on someone’s staff, so long as give him a heads up about confidential discussions. It won’t _end_ , Alex. What,” and here he scoffs, “Did he say he was going to _adopt_ you too?”

Alex scowls. “Oh fuck off. I’m not some kicked little puppy he can buy off that easily. I can say no to him the second the pros don’t outweigh the cons.”

John huffs. “If what you want is power, then you will _never_ reach the point where you have enough.”

Alex looks infuriated, and now he actually turns in his seat to face him. “Why are you talking to me like I’m some stupid little kid? You aren’t any smarter than me. You haven’t considered this any more carefully than I have. Can you just stop acting like I haven’t thought about all these things before? Factored them all in?”

“You’re right. I’m not smarter than you. And I’ll take it all back - every word - the day he actually fulfils any one of those wonderful things he hinted at.”

“Well strike one off, since he’s already paid my first-year fees. I wouldn’t have gotten any of this if I’d never come to your family.”

“Oh, suddenly you’re so thrilled about Georgetown. It’s not a top-twenty school, is it?”

“It’s way fucking better than some Queens community college. I can always do Harvard law, or Yale, or— Fuck, wherever I want! He can’t stop me from getting good grades, now that I’m in - and even if I don’t get the internship, or money for law school, it’s orders of magnitude better than what I’d have otherwise.”

Despite the bluster and the indignance, now that Alex is actually looking at him, John sees through some of his defensiveness. There’s a desperate intensity in his eyes, like winning this argument is about more than just proving his point. It’s like Alex has staked his whole future on the belief that he’s made the right call, taking his dad’s help. And since John knows Alex is allergic to the idea of charity, he must have promised something in return. 

He’ll get to the bottom of it eventually, but right now, it suddenly doesn't feel that important anymore. He’s made Alex doubt his own merits, and that was never the intention.

His expression turns wistful, and he reaches out a tentative hand and puts it on Alex’s forearm. Alex stiffens up a little, but he doesn’t draw back. 

John offers a little smile. “You would have gotten into any of those other schools on your merits alone. Without him. Please, _please_ keep your sights on that.” 

Alex shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You, Alex? I have no doubts. And I’ll make you a deal. We’ll do whatever it takes to get you where you want to go, together, so that you don’t have to keep relying on him. Okay?”

Alex pouts and glances away. “Look. We both have the same goals, okay? And I’m not reliant on _anyone_. Except maybe you.”

Alex puts his hand over his, and John melts. 

“Just… Please, Alex - keep your eyes open. You say we have the same goals, but since we met, it feels like we've been drifting very slowly in different directions.” John rubs his thumb along Alex’s forearm and tries to catch his eye. “I don’t want to lose sight of you.”

Alex winces and leans in to the touch. “Don’t say that. Of course we aren’t drifting apart. We-- Come on, John, we promised each other we’d be in this together.”

“That’s still true for me. How about you? Honestly?”

Alex nods. “Truly. I’ve come too far with you now, we’re in this for the long haul, okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, we’re family, right?” 

“Yeah, well, whatever that means, this feels like it to me.”

“Come here,” John says and pulls Alex into an awkward hug across the console. Alex is thrumming with tension as he wraps an arm around his back. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

Alex hums. “I’m sorry too. Can we get going now?”

“Oh, so he does know how to apologise,” John teases as he restarts the car and merges back onto the highway.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I’m the oldest brother of five. I gave up on apologies a long time ago.”

Alex huffs. “Six,” he says.

“What?”

“Unless you’re not counting me?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” John smiles ruefully to himself. “Six it is.”

\-----

The instant that John closes the apartment door behind them, Alex drops his suitcase and sits down heavily beside it. They’ve travelled an entire day to get here. Alex has been anticipating this moment for months, and yet all he can manage is to cast a weary, appraising look around at the hall.

“Remind me next time to book flights,” he grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “We can pay some moving service or something if we ever do this bullshit again.” 

“Alex.” John sighs heavily. “You literally just sat in the car for a day. Why are _you_ tired?”

Alex glares up at John from where he’s sitting on the floor in the hallway. “I’m _stiff_. And it’s so boring, just sitting there! It’s not like you had to do much more than, I dunno, hold a wheel?”

He’s joking, of course, but some of the exhaustion and irritation bleed into his voice and the words come out sharper than he means them. He’d thought that the frantic and defensive anger that had flared up in the car earlier had dissipated, but it seems to have only taken a moment of sitting with his thoughts to make it resurface. 

“Well, if you absolutely must sit, you lazy fucking bastard,” John grumbles, trying to maneuver past Alex without stepping on him, holding a big box, “Can you at least do it somewhere where you’re not a hazard?”

Alex groans but gets to his feet anyway, still scowling. Why is John unpacking everything _now_? Surely that can wait until tomorrow? 

“It’s eight pm, and I’m starving! Can’t we just get food and do all this later?”

John dumps the box down onto the kitchen island and starts rooting around inside it. He pulls out a few picture frames, and then looks around, evidently trying to envision a good spot for them. “No. If we get everything up now, then we can start settling in.”

Alex knows that expression. John’s mouth is set in a hard, determined line, his gaze singular and hyper-focused on the task at hand. There probably isn’t any reasoning with him, but Alex shakes his head anyway. “You’re crazy. No way am I unpacking all this shit now. What’s got you so eager to do all the boring decorating and shit?”

John frowns tightly and looks away. “I know it’s not a big deal for you. But I’ve never lived anywhere other than at home.”

Normally, one of John’s self-conscious declarations like this would tug at his heartstrings, but he can’t bring himself to pretend he can really empathise. His own pride, which he subdued just enough to allow him to apologise in the car earlier, won’t allow more deference to John’s nervous agitation.

He frowns at the floor and gives a tight shrug. “Yeah, well I’ve packed and unpacked more times than I can count. You can take this one for me if you want it so bad.”

John walks over to the windowsill, puts one of the frames down, then steps back to examine it. “It’s just weird, okay?”

Alex sighs and forces some of the irritation from his expression. While he can’t exactly relate to John’s desperate eagerness to begin calling this strange new apartment home, he can tell his foster brother is feeling genuinely raw and unsettled. As wounded as he feels from their argument earlier, a larger part of him is just _exhausted._

“Yeah. I know, it must be,” he offers neutrally.

John shrugs and turns back to the frame, rethinks its position, picks it up again and crosses to the counter dividing the living space from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything as he tries placing the frame there, then sighs and picks it up again, clearly frustrated.

Alex watches him uncertainly. He never knows what to do when John gets into moods like these, prickly and unresponsive. Usually it’s the other way around, Alex who John is trying to mollify, and even John taking the offensive - yelling, prying into his business and accusing him of things that came just a little too close to the truth - was easier to navigate than this. 

What would John do?

“I thought it was fine on the windowsill,” he says, forcing as much encouragement into his tone as he can muster. 

“No, it wasn’t.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Okay, then how about I lie on the couch and tell you if the frames are wonky or whatever?”

“Fuck you,” John says, but without any real bite. “It’s just… it needs to be _right_. Okay?”

Alex struggles to his feet with a low sigh and crosses to where John is standing by the window. John’s back is all tight muscle, his shoulders impossibly stiff and his jaw clenched. Alex glances at the picture he’s holding and then reaches out to put a hand on John’s shoulder.

“I get it, okay? I just don’t want you all worked up from the minute we get here. Why don’t you put them in our bedroom or something?”

John puts his free hand over Alex’s, and there’s a little tremor in it. This kind of thing doesn’t exactly come naturally to Alex, but he’s struck by the overwhelming urge to grab John’s hand and hold him close and whisper soothing reassurances into his ear until they both fall asleep.

“I’m sorry,” John mutters. “I know I’m being dumb. It’s just that I thought I’d be all excited to get here, but now all I feel is anxious. Out of place. It sucks.”

Alex makes a frustrated sound and throws an arm over John’s shoulder, pulling him close. “You _are_ being dumb. It’s been a long day and we’re both tired.” 

John just sighs in response.

He tousles John’s hair affectionately, because as much as he’d like to curl up with John’s arms around him and chat sleepily to him until they fall asleep, he can tell that’s not going to happen while John is still bubbling over with nervous energy. It’s best to try and convert it to something more positive.

“But just think of all the things we’ll get up to! Getting drunk with all our new friends right here? No kid siblings running around, no Henry breathing down our necks? Come on!”

John smiles, a little weakly. “Yeah, I guess. It’s all gonna be different. And I have no doubt you’re going to fit right in. You’ll be off with all your fancy new college friends soon enough.”

Alex hits him lightly on the shoulder, then keeps his hand there and squeezes tight. He doesn’t plan on saying this to John in such plain words, but making a plethora of new close friends isn’t at the top of his priority list - in fact it’s not even close.

“Different is good, John! And… People _listen_ to me because I’m loud and brash, but people _like_ you because you’re all… funny and smart and kind. You won’t have any trouble making friends.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. “God, I sound like a mom on the first day of middle school.”

John huffs, avoiding eye-contact. “Fuck, you do sound like my mom.” He wrinkles his nose. “Can I tell you something stupid?”

Alex nods seriously, knowing he should match the earnest, confessional tone of John’s voice. “Of course.”

John sighs. “I’m worried that you’re going to get all swept up in this new world - which you’re perfect for, by the way - and that… Okay, there’s no non-pathetic way to say this. That you’ll leave me behind.”

Alex is silent for a moment, staring into John’s avoidant gaze, wondering if there exists a single person at Georgetown that might be able to distract him away from John. A smile tugs at his lips at how obvious the conclusion is. 

“Don’t make me take back calling you smart. That _is_ stupid. John, you’re the only person on the whole east coast that will even put up with me! I’m hardly going to replace you with some pretentious pack of phony hipsters.”

John smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess you’ll have to come home to eat and get changed, at least.”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek and doesn’t return the smile. He tightens his grip on John’s upper arm. “John, I don’t want to see you worried all year that every new friend I make is some threat or something. You’re the closest friend… brother, whatever… I’ve had in, I don’t know, ever?”

John puts the frame down carefully and turns to properly meet Alex’s eyes for the first time. He hugs him, and the hand that comes to rest on Alex’s arm is a little clammy. He can feel John’s heart thudding between them. Alex hasn’t seen him without a slight tremor in his hand since their argument on the road and he knows that now, all the fear and frustration and tension are surfacing.

John’s voice is small and a little rough when he speaks. “Just promise you won’t let me hold you back, okay?”

Alex shakes his head, gripping John’s arm tightly. “You’d never hold me back. I don’t know how I’d survive here without you. But it _is_ a promise, even if I disagree with the wording.”

“Good enough.” John sighs with a note of finality, signalling a change of topic. His eyes still have that wary, flighty look to them, darting restlessly around before Alex can meet them for even a second. “Now… Did you give any more thought to the two room situation?”

Alex raises an eyebrow and tries a grin. “Do you mean the fact that we have to _share_ a bedroom? I’ve been trying to forget about that.”

John looks put out. “Well, we don’t _have_ to. It was just a suggestion.”

Alex wrinkles his nose. “I’m not letting you take the couch or a pullout, and I _certainly_ won’t. I think we can make it work.”

“Okay…” John sounds hesitant. “Thanks. I guess we’ll need to come up with some sort of - uh, system?”

Alex looks blankly at him, not grasping his meaning immediately. “For… chores, do you mean?”

“Um. No. For… making it work. With one bedroom.” John goes a little red, raising one eyebrow and giving an awkward sort of grimace.

Alex's eyes widen slightly as he realises John’s meaning and he grins broadly. “Uh, nothing more than common courtesy, right? Take care of that shit in the shower, and if you want to bring someone over, make sure I’m out, or text me so I can bail.”

An arrangement where one of them has to be ready to leave if the other plans on bringing a hook up home isn’t ideal, but he doesn’t think he has to worry about it on John’s end for a little while yet. As for himself, he already knows he’ll be asking to go back to other people’s dorms rather than bringing them here. 

“Um. Okay. I guess that works.”

Alex shrugs. “And the same rule applies vice versa. Do you think it’s going to be a big problem? Or we can just avoid bringing people back…”

“No, no, no, it’s fine,” John says quickly. “Just - yeah, a head’s up would be good.”

Alex smiles and slaps him on the shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. “Sounds good to me. Promise me you’ll make use of the system eventually, hm? We’re at college now, and I remember what you said at New Year’s.”

John cringes, and Alex almost regrets bringing that night up. If he intended to lighten the mood, the memory of that night hardly achieves the desired effect - for either of them.

“God damn your excellent memory,” John groans. “Weren’t you wasted that night?”

He certainly wasn’t drunk enough to forget what John said, or what happened down by the lake with Francis afterwards. He affects an incredulous expression and elbows John teasingly in the ribs.

“You said, _verbatim_ , ‘cocks will be in the picture again.’ I’m never going to forget that.”

John goes crimson and picks up the frames again. “I hate you so much.” He crosses the room again and comes to a stop in front of an empty shelf. As he’s lifting the frame to place it there, it slips out of his hand and crashes to the floor. “Oh, fuck!” John jumps backwards as the glass shatters noisily.

Alex hurries over to where John is standing by the shelf, staring down at the smashed glass in dismay. He crouches down to examine the damage. There’s no saving the frame, but the picture is, fortunately, intact.

“Damn. Oh well, it’s the photo that matters, we can buy a new frame easily. It’s fine.”

“Yeah,” John says softly, staring down blankly at the shattered glass. He walks over to a stack of boxes near the kitchen and starts opening them up hastily. “I swear there’s a dustpan in here somewhere…” 

There’s something a little frenetic in his motions as he begins to tear at the packing tape, not bothering with a pair of scissors.

Alex extracts the photograph from the mess of smashed glass and brushes it clean with the end of sleeve. It’s a photo of a much younger John. He’s clutching the hand of a woman who looks a lot like him - the same curls and dimples, a genuine and warm expression, though there’s something deep and tired in her eyes. John is grinning broadly, and it’s a kind of uncomplicated, natural happiness that Alex has never seen on his foster brother's face before.

He shakes himself. 

“Look, the photo’s fine — god, you look young here. John?”

“Hmm?” comes John’s distracted hum, amid shuffling and clattering.

“This is your mom, isn’t it?”

John doesn’t look up from where he’s now throwing things out of the boxes and onto the kitchen island. “Ah, yeah. I think I was - eight? The little kid is Martha.”

Alex runs a careful hand over the glossy paper. “You look a lot like her.” Then he glances back up at John and takes in his frantic unpacking. “Shit, be careful with that, you’ll break something.”

“Fuck,” John growls, and drops down onto the floor next to the rest of the boxes. “I fucking swear it was here.” He starts tipping a box over to dig around at the bottom.

Alex places the photo carefully on the shelf and hurries over to where John is rapidly making a mess of the living room floor. 

“Calm down, okay. It’s probably in one of the big boxes with the other cleaning stuff. Look, why don’t you order us some food and I’ll find it?”

“No, Alex!” John snaps. “Fuck, if we’d just unpacked, like I _asked_ you, this wouldn’t be a problem! I’m dealing with it now, okay?”

Alex watches John for an excruciatingly silent moment, before his own look of hurt twists into a glare and he springs to his feet. He’s done trying to manage John’s mood if this is all he’s getting in return. 

“Fine! I get it. It’s all my fault. I’m going to look in the boxes in the hall.”

“Alex, wait.” John’s voice cracks and his eyes are shimmering with tears of frustration as he throws out a hand to stop him. “It’s--” He lets out a long, shaky sigh. “Just leave it.”

Alex stops and turns around to face him. He bites his lip, his eyebrows furrowed. “Can we just take tonight easy? You clearly need to just eat something and go to bed, okay?”

John sighs, defeated. “Yeah. Okay. Can you--” He hesitates, squinting at the floor. “I don’t think I want to sleep on my own tonight.”

Alex moves back over to John, finding his own temper is cooling quickly in the face of his foster brother’s vulnerable tone. “Pretend like we’re having a sleepover or something?” He smiles, helping shift aside some of the contents of one large box to get at the bottom. “That’s fine. I… I don’t think I particularly want to either.”

John chuckles. “Just ‘doing homework’, right?” he says, referencing one of their standard excuses for being up late into the night back in Charleston. “Leave it,” he says, sounding steadier as he waves Alex away from the box. “Let’s grab a duvet and order pizza and watch a stupid movie, okay?”

Alex groans in relief and throws his head back. He’s starving and also not entirely certain he’d have been able to keep his temper in check if John had insisted they keep unpacking now. 

“Finally!” He laughs, throwing his arms around John’s neck and snuggling close. “It only took a minor breakdown for you to agree with me. I just need to find the duvets…”

John leans back a little to meet Alex’s eyes, and Alex is relieved to see he’s smiling now - tired and a little sheepish, but genuine nonetheless. “I already unpacked those. While you were - ah, stretching? Complaining? - in the hall.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “I was taking a vital rest after our day-long journey, okay? But you’re a lifesaver. Seriously.”

John hauls himself up from the floor and reaches out a hand to pull Alex after him. His shoulders seem sore and stiff from all the manual labour, judging by how gingerly he’s moving. “Come along, your highness.”

Alex cracks a grin. “Finally getting the respect I deserve around here.” 

John leans down and kisses Alex’s hand in an exaggerated show of deference. “Your bedchamber awaits,” he laughs, leading Alex over. “But you’re ordering. I don’t wanna have to figure out D.C. restaurants now.”

This, _finally_ , feels natural. It’s the most lighthearted and normal conversation they’ve had since they got into the car early this morning, and Alex feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. The sudden reminder that while his surroundings have changed, the one grounding constant that never fails to make him laugh, to provide comfort, is still with him.

Alex rolls his eyes. “It’s takeout pizza, not the Four Seasons. Thank you for finally seeing sense, at least. I knew you’d come round.”

John slings his arm around Alex’s shoulder and tugs him against his side, ruffling his hair. 

“You always were the smart one.”

John’s a little dusty and sweaty from all the work he’s been doing, but Alex smiles into his side, breathing in his familiar, comforting smell. It’s a welcome change from the new apartment’s odour of fresh paint and cleaning products. 

“You’re such a flatterer, trying to get into my good graces because I’m ordering the pizza. May this be the first of many takeout-movie nights, huh?”

And he can already picture it; the two of them curled up in one of their beds together or sprawled on the rug with blankets and couch cushions. 

“Yeah,” John teases. “You’ll have to save some time in your social calendar for me after all.”

Alex rolls his eyes and taps the name of a pizza place into his phone to find the number. Then he does his best Henry impression. “I’ll have my assistant send it over, you just mark off the days.”

“That’s possibly the scariest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” John laughs. “But I have a better idea.” He ducks his shoulder down, grabs Alex tightly around his midsection and picks him up with astounding ease. “There,” he says smugly, “Try getting out of your appointment now.”

Alex kicks and laughs and curses in John’s hold, unable to free himself from where John has slung him fireman-style over his shoulder. 

“You asshole!” he yelps, flushed with laughter. “What kind of evil plan is this?”

John only laughs and finally, with an exaggerated sigh, Alex goes limp and looks up at John beseechingly. 

“I concede defeat!” he announces. “If you put me the hell down then you can name all the days you want.”

John drops Alex onto one of the beds, then slips down after him in a tangle of limbs, laughing and sputtering when he gets a mouthful of Alex’s hair. Then John gropes blindly for him and wraps one arm possessively around his midsection. “Gotcha!”

Alex grabs John’s forearm and clings tightly to it, holding it to his waist with a devious grin. “Maybe _I’ve_ gotcha too…”

John snorts, then hauls himself up so that he’s sitting across Alex’s thighs. Something about his weight pushing Alex down, grounding and immobilising him - but without malice or even purpose behind it - makes him feel incredibly safe. 

“Gotcha more,” John counters, pinning one of Alex’s shoulders to the bed.

Alex makes an exaggerated show of heaving and struggling against John’s weight. He’s strangely satisfied to find he can’t shift it, then he flops back onto the bed and laughs breathlessly. “Fine. You win, you brawny motherfucker.”

John raises an eyebrow. “If you get to talk circles around me, I need a way to win fights too.”

Alex grins, though privately he thinks John wins fights by the default of being the better person. “We’re the dream team, all right. The whole of Georgetown will tremble before us!”

John beams, then flops back down next to Alex. “Dream team, huh? Do or die.”

Alex huffs a laugh and cuffs John playfully on the side of the head. They’re messing around, but behind the laughter, Alex is deadly serious. 

“Bonnie and Clyde?” he suggests, and their faces are close now. Alex watches the dimple to one side of John’s mouth twitch in amusement.

“Alex and John. Much better ring to it. Besides, weren’t they, like, a couple?”

Alex shrugs. He doesn’t think it really matters, especially as he and John exist in this ill-defined, unorthodox ‘friends-foster brothers-once nearly made out’ territory.

“Whatever they were, they were badass and they stuck together.”

“Good role models then.” John pauses, and they hold eye-contact for a long moment as the silence hangs between them. John’s nose is so close that Alex could count the freckles there, if he weren’t utterly incapable of looking away from his eyes.

John shifts, breaking their gaze and grinning a little awkwardly. “Get pepperoni, okay?”

Alex nods, twisting under John to reach for his phone. “Naturally.”

“Best little brother ever,” John says, a little softer now.

Alex smirks and digs a hand into John’s rib. Is this what having a brother to hold you and look out for you feels like? He supposes John would know. Alex hasn’t had this kind of affection from anyone in so long, he hardly feels _able_ to name it.

“I know.” He bites his lip. “You’re pretty cool yourself. Apart from holding me hostage for movie nights.”

John smiles and shrugs, then closes his eyes as he turns and snuggles in against Alex’s side. “Don’t think I’ll manage a movie,” he says around a big yawn.

Alex shrugs and pushes a hand absently through John’s curls. He probably wouldn’t make it through one either. “I can wake you up when the pizza gets here?”

John hums at the touch. “Sure,” he says, but then reaches his arm around Alex’s midsection again and grabs on tightly. His warm hand curls around Alex’s waist. 

Alex smiles and nuzzles into the hug as he makes the call to the pizza place. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but he continues carding his hand through John’s hair.

“But you still love me,” John murmurs, already half asleep.

Alex laughs. “Can’t not. When you’re paying for our pizza…”

John grumbles something inaudible, but he presses a kiss to the side of Alex’s arm. “’nough talking,” he mutters.

Alex mimes zipping his lips, even though John can’t actually see him, just before the pizza place picks up. He orders — in a soft voice so he doesn’t disturb John — and even in sleep, his foster brother’s grip around his middle stays tight and protective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of the _A Portrait of the Artist_ series (the first instalment chronologically in the Compromise verse) and after this, we’ll be taking a pause on regular updates to work on the prompts you have submitted and the next story in this series! We don’t have an exact timeline for when we’ll start publishing the next work in this series, but it’s well underway. In the meantime, our prompts are mainly ‘deleted scenes’ or events from the series as seen from another character’s point of view.
> 
> We’ve already had some great suggestions - but there is still time to send in your prompts and scene requests! Submit them in a comment, send them to us on Instagram (@my_deer_friend or @marie_xcherie) OR submit them anonymously on Tumblr (@my-deer-friend).
> 
> Thank you so much, from both, to everyone who commented, came to chat to us, left kudos and most importantly, just followed along - even silently. It means the world, and we had loads of fun doing it! 
> 
> Lots of love,
> 
> M & A <3


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